In Dog We Trust
by Lampito
Summary: There's a sudden surfeit of surplus sinful spirits. And stray dogs looking for happy homes. The Winchesters don't know why, but they might just find themselves dragged into helping fix it. But first, let's all point and laugh at Crowley.
1. Prologue

Well, the plot bunnies are back again. Well, one is, at least. It was quite insistent. I'm pretty sure it was sent to me by one of the Denizens, Visitors, Lurkers or Casual Droppers-In of the Jimiverse. It hasn't given me a proper plot yet, just an idea, but sometimes if we humour the bunny, it keeps whispering.

**DISCLAIMER: **None of it is mine, I just make them cry so that others can hug them better.

**TITLE: **In Dog We Trust

**SUMMARY:** There's a sudden surfeit of surplus sinful spirits. And stray dogs looking for happy homes. The Winchesters don't know why, but they might just find themselves dragged into helping fix it. But first, let's all point and laugh at Crowley. Ha ha ha. And find Dean a nice cushion.

**RATING:** T. Don't let that pretty face and those big green eyes fool you, he has a foul mouth.

**BLAME: **Can't pin it down specifically, but the fault for this fic probably lies with the people who pestered me for another one. You people have no mercy.

* * *

><p><strong>Prologue<strong>

Grace Jenkinson clutched her grandmother's crucifix, and waited, one eye on the clock as it approached midnight. The small intricate cross was a beautiful piece of work. Her grandfather had carved it for her grandmother, when they were courting. It was delicately wrought, and inscribed on the back. _Magister __nos __libera._ Lord, deliver us.

She was about to be delivered, all right. But she would not regret what she had done. Bargain away her soul to save her children? After the horrific injuries her babies had sustained at the hands of a drunken truck driver, it had been a no-brainer. Their miraculous recoveries had amazed doctors, family, everyone except her. She stared hard at the photo above the mantel, memorising it, committing the picture to memory so she would have something to hold onto when... when...

The howl sounded. Distant, but clear.

She smiled to herself, as another fragment of Latin came back to her. _Nullum __desiderium._ No regrets.

She left the house, and made her way into the back yard. Shiloh the bitzer rested in her kennel, eyes wide and watchful. She'd heard the howl too. Grace urged the dog inside. Since they'd rescued the extremely mixed breed animal from the shelter, she'd turned out to be ferociously protective of her new family. Grace didn't want to risk having the dog get between herself and..._it_, when it came for her. The kids and her husband would be upset enough when she died. She didn't want to make it any worse...

The howl sounded again, closer this time.

"Go on, missy," she instructed the dog, urging Shiloh inside through the dog door, "You can't help here. The kids will need you. Go be with them." Confused, but obedient, the animal popped inside through the door with a whine.

_Bonggggg...bongggg..._

The antique clock that had also been her grandmother's began its soft, sonorous chiming of midnight.

_Bonggggg...bongggg..._

The howling was just on the other side of the fence.

_Bonggggg...bongggg..._

The snarling was clearly audible, too.

_Bonggggg...bongggg..._

She looked around the yard. The detritus of a happy life surrounded her: two bicycles (hadn't she told the girls to put them away again?), a scattering of dog toys (Shiloh would look after them), a paddle pool (used as much by the dog as the kids), a tyre swing hanging from the old oak tree, right next to the dog's treat ball on an elastic. Worth it. Worth eternity.

_Bonggggg...bongggg..._

Nullum desiderium.

_Bonggggg...bongggg..._

No regrets. No regrets. Not one damned regret...

The monster was uglier than anything that had ever walked the Earth. Its rumbling growl travelled to her through the ground. Its eyes glowed red, its slavering knife-teeth dribbled with glutinous gunk that hissed and spat where it landed on the grass. She smiled to herself one last time – _no__ regrets_ – and closed her eyes, preparing for Hell.

She waited.

And waited.

And waited.

She had assumed that when she next opened her eyes again, it would be to the soul-breaking horror of the Pit.

When she did finally open her eyes again, what she did see was the giant, stinking monster sniffing curiously at the dangling treat ball. The massive, gnarled head nosed at the small yellow globe carefully. A prehensile tongue emerged to explore the strange object...

_Doingggg_

The ball jiggled on the elastic. A couple of dog treats bounced out.

The sound of the dog door was followed by furious barking. Like many dogs, Shiloh could hear a dog treat hit the ground at a distance of a hundred feet – the noise of her treat ball being bounced by a total stranger was certainly going to get her attention.

Grace gaped as the massive misshapen creature studied the small dog that was woofing irritably at it. It reached down to nose at the small animal berating it...

They sniffed noses...

**...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... **

After about half an hour of waiting for the Hellhound to come and drag her off to Hell, as per the deal she'd made ten years earlier, Grace decided, somewhat irritably, to head back to bed. She left Shiloh demonstrating how to operate the treat ball effectively – leap, grab the end, bounce, let go, snuffle up treats – and went back to bed. If it did finally decide to come and get her, she decided, she might as well be comfortable; it was cold outdoors.

**...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... **

The next morning, when the family arose, the branch of the oak tree had been torn from the trunk. It must've been a freak wind gust that did it, reasoned Grace's husband. Which was kind of annoying, because it had landed on the fence and totally destroyed it. Presumably, that's how the other dog – the one that was now sharing the kennel with Shiloh – had gotten in. He was another bitzer, although much larger than Shiloh. Grace's husband suggested he might have a bit of wolfhound in him, which would explain his height. At any rate, he was a friendly thing, and both the kids took to him immediately. Shiloh seemed to enjoy his company, too.

They did try to find out whether he had an owner somewhere looking for him, but by the time the 'FOUND DOG' posters had been up for a week, the girls had named him Archie and he had mastered the trick of bringing her husband his slippers after the kids were in bed, a trick that endeared him to the Man Of The House no end. In fact, 'Fetch' was his absolute favourite game. He could retrieve things that had been thought lost for good. Her husband decided to try taking him along to a local dog obedience club on weekends. Archie had a decided talent for it. The instructors suggested that he might be a good tracker.

Grace was a little wary of him – she said it was because he was so big – until the day she was confronted in the driveway by a knife-wielding man intent on carjacking. He dared to wave his knife at one of her daughters; Archie came over a seven foot fence and bowled into the would-be thief, holding him until the police arrived.

At least, that's what she told the police. Because they'd never believe her if she said she'd seen him run _through_ the fence to confront the intruder...

Her daughters were the envy of their schoolmates, for being allowed to go out by themselves when so many others their ages were not. Well, 'by themselves' meant 'take Archie', because the dog proved to be a flawless judge of character. He could smell dishonourable intentions a mile away, and his big happy smile and big soppy face and big floppy ears could give way to a snarling, slavering guardian if anyone dared threaten his charges. The teenager who tried to steal the girls' phones in the park one afternoon discovered that. In fact, he'd have sworn that the damned animal's eyes glowed red as it tore at his jeans...

He's just a good boy, Grace's husband said, smiling, patting the dog's head when his daughters breathlessly recounted Archie's behaviour, with a nose for evil shit.

She slipped the dog a large chunk of hamburger mince that evening as she prepared dinner.

"Thank you," she'd whispered to him, finally patting him, and smiling. "Thank you. I don't know why you're here, but you're welcome to stay for as long as you like."

Archie wagged his tail, and butted against her leg for more pats.


	2. Chapter 1

**Chapter 1**

When Dean was two years old, he sometimes heard monsters under his bed. Monsters, or the occasional alligator. His parents had distinctly different ways of dealing with the scary things under the bed.

John would get a grim look on his face, pull off a boot, and crawl in under the bed. Dean would hear a number of loud thumpings, his father's voice demanding "Out! Out! Get out of my son's bedroom!", and a terrified monster – or alligator – shriek in a frightened falsetto "Ow! Ow! I'm sorry! I'm sorry! I'll go! OW! I won't ever come back, I promise! Please don't whack me, pleeeeeease, OWWWWW!"

"And stay out!" John would yell as he emerged from under the bed, inviting Dean to check that the offending creature was indeed gone, and would never come back because Daddy had scared the daylights out of it. "That's what we do to monsters in this household, Deano," he'd assured his smiling boy.

Mary had a slightly different approach. She taught him to make the nasty things go away all by himself. He just had to sing the song to frighten them off.

_Stupid monster, hear me say,  
><em>_Stupid monster, go away.  
><em>_If you don't, I don't care,  
><em>_I'll pull down your underwear._

It worked, too, every time, because he could never get to the end of the song without starting to giggle, and the monster always fled, presumably aghast at the idea of having to go out and walk around _in __front __of __everybody_ with _no __pants_ on. Even the alligator.

When he was a bit older, she taught him that if you ignored a monster, it would be so upset it would cry itself right out of existence. Monsters were just like mosquito bites – ignore them, and they would go away. He would turn over in his bed, grinning smugly to himself, thinking of the monster tearfully withering away from lack of attention because he refused to look under his bed for it. It was a shame about the alligator, though, because he was starting to think that an alligator would make a really cool pet, so sometimes he'd peek, just to see if it was there, and might want to come out and live in the yard instead...

Sam knew this, because Dean had done the same thing for him, and taught him the same song, and told him how to make monsters pine away. He couldn't help but wonder if this early experience had contributed to Dean's adult strategy for coping with things he didn't like: If I Can Ignore It Hard Enough It Isn't Actually Happening.

They had been busy. Very busy, even for them. It had been one job after another, one restless angry spirit after another. It seemed that every town, no matter how small, suddenly had some malevolent ghost that didn't want to accept the fact that it was dead, and have the decency to lie down and act like it. That was the problem with malevolent spirits: they killed or hurt people, they broke things, they destroyed lives, and they had terribly bad manners.

He'd been in favour of taking a bit of down time to rest up, and recuperate – one Hunt after another left them both tired, and carrying injuries, and that's when mistakes got made, but there was just one salt and burn after another, and Dean never could stand the thought of being too late to save someone. Eventually, the inevitable happened; it only took a moment of inattention, and the damned thing got the drop on them. This time it was Dean's turn to go flying through the air with the grace and aerodynamic precision of a brick.

If only he could've gone head first into a tombstone, sighed Sam wistfully, at least that wouldn't have damaged anything... delicate. Except perhaps the tombstone.

"Dean," he tried again, trying to keep his voice calm and reasonable, "Dean, I really think you should let me check your... leg..."

"In your dreams, pervo boy!" snapped his big brother, emerging from the bathroom, with as much authority as a guy clutching a towel around his waist can muster. "There's nothing wrong! It's just a bit of a graze. AAARGH!" He let out a shriek as Jimi the half-Hellhound Rottweiler nosed aside the towel to inspect Dean's posterior, whining in concern. "Not you too, J-Man? Even the dog's turning into a perv!" He swatted at the big square head that gazed up at him worriedly.

"Just a graze there, huh?" asked Sam, irritation rising. "Funny, I didn't know you did yoga. Because that's what you'd have to do to check out your own wound, in this case. Although for someone who spends so much time with his head up his own ass, maybe it's entirely possible..."

"It's not that bad!" Dean insisted, clutching his towel tighter. Jimi the half-Hellhound Rottweiler nudged closer to his Alpha, with a whuff of moral support.

"You went totally white, and nearly passed out sitting in the car on the way back," Sam pointed out. "See? Even the dog knows you're in pain!"

"I had a very manly dizzy spell, on account of getting thrown through the air by an angry ghost," clarified Dean primly.

"You nearly fainted with pain sitting down after that old bastard threw you through a rotting wooden fence, ass first," countered Sam. "Look, your jeans were torn, I saw blood..."

"What are you doing perving on my ass?" demanded Dean.

"Trying to save you from yourself!" answered Sam in exasperation. "Look, Dean, the cemetery backs onto a horse agistment field. That fence was a bad case of tetanus waiting to happen! That wound needs to be cleaned at the very least, and there are probably splinters in there too. Come on, even you have to acknowledge that it's probably the last place ever that you want to get an infection – we need you in the game, we have two more jobs lined up already, and I'm pretty sure there's another angry spirit after that..."

"I am not letting you and your tweezers anywhere near my ass!" stormed Dean. "I don't care how many angry spirits are queuing up to be salted and toasted! STOP THAT!" Jimi had taken hold of Dean's towel in his teeth, and was gently but firmly trying to remove it. The dog wore an expression that was eerily similar to Sam's 'I Know What's Best For You' look.

"Fine," humphed Sam, with a glare of Bitchface #7™ (You Can Be Impossibly Unreasonable Dean, You Know That?). "We'll take you to A&E. You can sit on a hard plastic chair for a few hours, then a fifty-something nurse built like a lucha libre wrestler, who's just marking time until retirement, whose nickname happens to be Typhoid Mary, and who may or may not be female, will snap on the latex gloves, hold you down, and perpetrate what is technically 'wound care' on your ass, but it will feel a whole lot more like..."

"How do you know I wouldn't get a hot nurse?" Dean wanted to know.

"Because your luck is never that good," Sam pointed out.

"It's a moot point, anyway," his big brother growled, "Because it's only a bit of a scratch, and it doesn't need tending to, by Nurse Typhoid Mary, or by Good Dog Carl, here, or you, Florence Nightmare..."

"Would you like me to call Cas to heal it?" enquired Sam. "I'm sure that he has nothing better to do, what with being Sheriff of Heaven, he must have copious free time that he would like to fill up with medical matters that could actually be handled right here and now..."

"Don't you dare thing about handling anything!" interrupted Dean in horror.

"So why don't I just send him a p-mail, and he can fix you up, since you're too much of a baby to let a human do it?" Sam knelt by his bed, and put his hands together.

"It's not quite time for bedtime yet,  
>But right now I am desperate.<br>For help I pray to Angel Cas,  
>Because my brother's hurt his..."<p>

"Sam..."

"He's acting like a great big baby.  
>I was hoping that you maybe<br>Could drop in and heal him quick,  
>Because he's just a total..."<p>

"Sam..."

"I know he has a wound needs tending –  
>Almost fainted just from bending.<br>Now he's gone all shy and whiny,  
>Doesn't want to show his...<p>

"Sam!" Dean yelped. "Knock it off! You want Danael in Reception to smite you for sending obscene p-mails?" He shuddered at the memory of the senior angel paying them a visit to spank him for sending a prayer full of cusswords Heavenwards. The memory made his more recent wound stab with pain. "Ow! Fuck!"

"It's not going to get better by itself," Sam told him matter-of-factly. "It could be worse, you know."

"How could it be worse?" Dean demanded, "I have what feels like half a fence-post embedded in... the top of my leg, how the hell could it be worse?"

"It could be Bobby," Sam pointed out. "Look, if you want to spend a couple of days lying down on the back seat while I drive us to his place for him to deal with it, by which time it will be infected and he will call you 'idjit', and there will probably be scalpel blades involved to lance it, I'll do that, but..."

"All right," Dean deflated in the face of horrifying reality. "All right. You win. Nurse Sammy can fix the damage." He glared at his little brother. "But don't you dare touch the merchandise, you freak!"

"Hey, you think I'm looking forward to this any more than you?" Sam screwed up his face. "Believe me, 'Pulling splinters out of my brother's... upper leg' is _so_ not on my Bucket List!"

"I hate you, bitch," muttered Dean, pulling a shirt on, dropping his towel, and lying on his bed. Jimi whuffed consolingly, then went and fetched his favourite toy, Oinker Stoinker the squeaky pig, and offered it to Dean as a distraction.

"Right back at ya, jerk," huffed Sam, fetching the First Aid box and fishing out tweezers and antiseptic. "Oh, yeah, you've got splinters all right. Ow, that looks nasty. This will probably sting a bit."

"Aaaaa aaaaaa AAAAAAARGH! OW! OW! Oh, Jesus Christ!"

"He won't help," grunted Sam, peering at the wound in Dean's... upper leg.

"AAAAAAAAARGH! OW! OW! SERIOUSLY OW!" howled Dean. Jimi licked at his Alpha's face, whuffing reassuringly, then honked on Oinker Stoinker.

"Oh, God, bite the pillow or something," Sam rolled his eyes.

"Are you calling me a pillow biter? OWWWWWW!" Dean sank his teeth into the pillow. "Oh, FUCK, fuckfuckfuckityFUCK, oh, this is worse than Hell..."

"For once, we agree on something," muttered Sam, picking up the tweezers. "Hey, unclench, I can't see a damned thing!"

**...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... **

Nancy was in the habit of restocking the linen closet the night after the truck delivered. It kept things tidier in the office, and saved time if she was starting early the next day, which she always preferred to do on a linen change day. It might not be a very classy motel, and housekeeping might not be a very classy job, but she was determined to do it as well and as efficiently as she could. It was that sort of attitude that saw her doing so well at college. And the money she earned during the break was always useful – the textbooks just got more expensive with each semester, especially now she was almost finished her degree.

She'd seen the two guys check in a few days ago – the older one had given her a wink and the most gorgeous smile, while the younger one had been shyer, but charmingly polite. Trish in the office said they were brothers, but Nancy wasn't convinced. The walls were thin, and they argued like an old married couple. Walking back to her car now, she heard what sounded at first like another squabble from their room.

"Aaaargh! AAAAARGH! Be CAREFUL, will you?"

"I am! Try not to... wiggle!"

"EEEEEEEEEP! Cold hands!"

"Sorry. Hang on, we need more..."

"Hey, you don't need the whole damned bottle!"

"Shut up. Right, I can see the end. Oh, you really got this one stuck in here good..."

"Just get it out already!"

"I'm trying, it keeps going back in... Oh, great, it's disappeared again. I told you not to clench!"

"This is so much worse than I thought it would be, please just kill me now..."

"Will you just hold still? I can't see the hole when you keep wiggling!"

"Oh, God, this is so humiliating..."

"It's me, or a trip to hospital. Hang on, hang on, I got hold of it..."

"Aaaaaa AAAARGH!"

"Fuck me, this thing is huge..."

"Ohshitohshitohshit just get it ou-aaaaaargh! Aaaaargh! AAAAARGH!"

"Got it! Crap. How the hell did something that big get in there?"

"Oh God, I'm dying here, I won't be able to sit down for a week..."

_whunk whunk whonk whonk_

"I know you're trying to help, but I really don't feel up to playing with your favourite toy right now..."

Nancy sighed to herself. The shorter one had given her such a come-hither smile, too. Why was it always the hot ones? It really wasn't fair.

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><p>Reviews are the Overheard Conversations in the Cheap Motel Of Life!<p> 


	3. Chapter 2

...because this is my Jimiverse, and I'll write Hell however I like...

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><p><strong>Chapter 2<strong>

The second he set foot in his office, he noticed The Smell.

As he set a second foot in his office, he noticed the squelch.

Crowley sighed. He knew he was not popular. It was, as the saying went, lonely at the top. It had its benefits, of course – he was equally disliked by just about every demon in Hell, which actually worked to his advantage, because nobody could ever accuse him of playing favourites.

What he did was, in fact, perform a necessary service. He was a self-made demon, and had risen to become King of Hell (although Senior Executive Manager might be a more accurate term, given what the post entailed) through his own hard graft, shameless corruption, ruthless ambition, murderous selfishness, and total lack of conscience or moral code. Even the Hierarchy of Hell, the elder demonic nobility, had to admit it, if only in the privacy of their own heads; in the absence of Lucifer, Crowley made the place run. He kept the place _functioning_.

He kept the cross-roads demons operating, and had implemented a quota system that meant that Damning Deals now had a dedicated department keeping tabs on its dealers and its dealees, with only the most capable temptation demons allowed Topside to make deals – a meritocracy, in which age, politics, connections and the number of fangs you had meant nothing, and any lowly damned soul, no matter how humble in origin, could dream about earning their red eyes... He kept the imps and fiends in line: all they really wanted was some recognition for their work, and the simple measure of awarding gold stars, and an 'Indispensable Drudge Of The Month' sash and tiara had boosted their morale and productivity. He arbitrated disputes between those working the racks and those stoking the fires, he sat on the selection panels that promoted recently corrupted souls to internships at the racks, he intervened when the nobles' private squabbles began to spill over into larger regions of Hell, or occasionally Topside (because a referee who was equally despised by both sides could be impartial). He did all the stuff that left the Hierarchy to do what they liked to do, which was mainly indulge in the Seven Deadly Sins, and plot and scheme and intrigue and backbite and sabotage against each other.

And, of coure, most importantly, he kept the flow of souls coming Downstairs.

"Dear Crowley," Asmodinia had cooed at him after he had brought a halt to a war between her own and her brother's factions before it tore too large a hole in the fabric of reality, "If you didn't exist, we would have to invent you." He'd smiled and bowed, knowing that she'd gut him as soon as look at him if his absence wouldn't represent such potential inconvenience for her and her type.

They were a snobby bunch, Hell's nobles. Vicious and petty, with very long memories, they could spend hundreds of years quietly manoeuvring to supplant a rival, bring down another clan, or, on a couple of memorable occasions, set up a truly spectacular practical joke. Oh yes, very droll. The amazing exploding Italian tailor, how funny that had been, ha ha ha, didn't we all laugh, wasn't it utterly hilarious that Crowley had had to spend a good half hour picking pieces of Mediterranean anatomy off his brand new suit...

Or, sometimes, they preferred the direct approach. Like now.

He gloomily inspected the pile of disgusting odiferous gunk he'd stepped in. Another token of the esteem in which they held him, no doubt, a cheerful little message to let him know that hey, every time we see the scrapings from beneath the racks in the lowest stinking gloom of the Pit, we think of you...

His shoe was steaming gently; the pile of yuck was corrosive, and it was eating away at the expensive leather.

He wiped it off as best he could as a knock sounded on the door.

"Come in," he called in his best I'm The Boss voice. A hulking multi-armed fiend entered the room. The expression on its face was one that Crowley had learned meant that it was actually smiling.

"Just drop them on the desk, thanks, Orgle," he smiled back at the fiend, who carefully put down the files he was carrying. The thing's pelt was filthy, but he noticed that the little gold badge depicting a tiny rack, with three gold skull pips on it (indicating that he'd held the sash and tiara for his circle of Hell three times in the last century) had been lovingly polished bright. "So, how are you finding Admin?"

"It's different," mused Orgle, scratching his side with a talon, making a noise like a rusty saw cutting into mummified leather, "It's not as physical as what I'm used to. But it's a lot...tidier. There's no bits of guts lying around. Verael is very strict about filing."

"Yes, that she is," agreed Crowley with forced jollity. Verael was one of the few things in Hell that actually really scared Crowley. She was one of the Fallen, an angel who had picked the losing side. That didn't do anything for her temper.

She ran Admin with an iron fist inside an iron glove, holding an iron ruler – possibly she had compensated for loss of her connection with the Divine Order by pulling together an Infernal Order when given the opportunity. Crowley had learned to pay _very_ close attention to the small passive-aggressive 'suggestions' that she sent him, usually as small yellow notes stuck onto his weekly update files. Some of the smaller imps whispered to each other about how those notes were actually written on parchment made from the hides of cherubs; Verael caught them, so the story went, and bit their heads off, and skinned them to make her stationery, and used their blood in her pens and on her stamps, and cleaned her nails with their arrows and flossed her teeth with their bows. Having only met the Satanic Senior Secretary a few times, he was not inclined to dismiss the rumours out of hand. He sometimes had the distinct impression that the only reason she didn't squash him like a bug was that he insisted on everybody submitting written reports, and sending them to her for filing.

"It's nice not to have to worry about slipping over on something, or getting a slap of viscera in the side of the head," Orgle went on, "Which was a bit of a work hazard doing rack maintenance, although the non-slip mats and the fluorescent vests have helped. Not everybody is as neat as Alistair was. Or as precise as that boy who understudied for a while, Darren, Dane, or something... in fact, I was wondering if we might do something about that..."

"Hmmm?" Crowley had started to examine the files. "I'm not sure filing would really be practical in the Pit, Orgle..."

"Not filing in files, no," Orgle agreed, "I thought, maybe a sort of pigeon hole arrangement? Or maybe a shelf with buckets, and labels. Letters on them. You know, 'I' for intestines, 'B' for bowels and brains and bladders, 'L' for lungs and livers and legs, 'P' for pancreases, 'K' for kidneys, I think it would help to sort things out at the end of the working day."

"You might be onto something there, Orgle," grinned Crowley, flicking open one of the files and frowning, "But how would you know whose liver was whose? Kidneys all look much the same once you've seen a few of them. I remember, I had my own shown to me on numerous occasions..."

"That's exactly the problem I thought of too," Orgle continued, "And at first I wondered if you could use DNA, you know, unique to an individual – I consulted a molecular biologist."

Crowley blinked. This was just the sort of initiative he was trying to encourage, and he truly hadn't expected it from one of the lumbering fiends whom he privately tended to think of as Hell's drummers. "A... you went and found a molecular biologist?"

Orgle nodded happily. "Nasty guy, poisoned a colleague who beat him to a tenured position. Anyway, he said that the theory was sound, uses something called 'tandem repeat sequences', so I pulled him off the rack for a few weeks – I did fill in the Requisition, in triplicate, countersigned, and filed it with Verael – but he couldn't get it working. He said that there were too many 'PCR inhibitors' in the water down here, whatever that means. But then I found this system from Topside, called 'DataDots' – it's like spray-on ID microdots for stuff, but you can use it on organs, I got hold of a couple of cans and did some initial tests, it looked pretty promising..."

"_A __WHAT?__"_ Crowley's eyes bugged as he read. "Er, sorry, Orgle, look, it sounds like you might be onto something there, why don't you write a Project Proposal and put it in the Suggestions Box?"

Orgle looked crestfallen. "I don't have any offspring to use to get their blood to fill in the cover sheet," he said a little sadly.

"Oh, that's not a problem," Crowley waved a hand distractedly, "Just abduct somebody else's, it's what everybody else does."

"Thanks boss," Orgle brightened up considerably.

"Oh, and Orgle? Could you clean up that?" He pointed to the small pile of yuck that had ruined a pair of very good shoes.

Orgle looked uncomfortable. "Um, I'm not supposed to do that," he said carefully, "It's the imps' job. It's in the Statement Of Duties. They get quite upset about it..."

"Under the circumstances, I would consider it a personal favour, just this once," Crowley said with his most winning smile, "And we all know that you've had your hands dirty before, coming up through the ranks from the floors of the Pit, it's not like you're some shiny-arsed bastard trying to kick them all back down to the lowest circle..."

"I'll get right on it, Mr Crowley," Orgle assured him.

Crowley re-read the page of the report that had brought him up short. It had to be typos. Or somebody's idea of a joke. Seriously, those numbers could _not_ be right. And this... one of them brought back... a _what_?

He consulted the file cover and groaned when he saw who'd prepared it. Great. Asmodean, his very own diabolical bean-counter. Newly wrought demons, barely born from the final twisting and snapping of human souls, had been known to beg to be allowed to get back onto the rack after being assigned to help out in Accounting. The torture was supposed to stop once you'd finally made the transition to actual demon, right?

Crowley thought about calling Hell's Most Boring Demon to his office, but then decided to go and confront him in his own lair instead. He whistled up the Hellhound that he took with him everywhere. It was good PR, to take such a large hulking monster, which was capable of dismembering even senior demons, out and about with him.

"Fido? Fido! Where are you?" he called. The monster was generally to be found lounging on an expensive Persian carpet whenever Crowley worked in his office, but the creature was conspicuous by its absence. Frowning, he made his way into the next room of his office suite.

Where he was, once again, assaulted by The Smell.

"What the... Fido!" He'd never imagined that a Hellhound could look anything except murderously hungry. He certainly would never have believed that one of the hounds of the Pit could ever manage to look... guilty.

But that's exactly how the creature appeared, sitting next to another steaming heap of... yes, well.

"Did you just do that?" Crowley demanded. The thing actually lowered its head, and its ears, like sheets of ill-tanned hide, drooped visibly. "Lucifer's bum, when did you start... losing your housetraining?"

The abomination before him whined.

Crowley hissed in annoyance. This would have to wait. He had to get to the bottom of the extremely worrying information in the file he'd just read. Orgle could clean up.

"Come on, you," he muttered to the hound, which immediately sprang to his side, eager to be forgiven. "Now then," he went on, "How would you like to come with me, go and visit Asmodean, take a little walk?"

The hound immediately began to caper at his side, running in a little circle, clearly excited.

In fact, it was so excited at the prospect of a walk, that it did what dogs often do when they become really, really excited...

Crowley watched in disbelief as the stream of hissing liquid set fire to a very expensive antique Baroque chaise longue.

"Oh, Jesus suffering fuck!" he barked as the animal returned to him. He looked around for something to douse the flames with. Strangely enough there wasn't anything. It made sense, he supposed – nobody ever thought that fire regulations would be something that was necessary in Hell...

"Orgle!" he shouted, heading back for the other room, where the fiend was carefully scooping up the first pile of Hellhound crap, "Orgle! Get me a, a, a fire extinguisher!"

Orgle's massive brows wrinkled in confusion. "A... what?"

"A fire extinguisher!" yelped Crowley, glancing back anxiously at the other room, where the flicker of flames was becoming more entrenched, "You know, it's a thing that puts out fires? I need one!"

"It... puts _out _fires?" Orgle was genuinely trying to understand, but failing miserably.

Crowley drew in a deep breath. "Orgle," he said calmly, "I need you to go Topside, RIGHT NOW, and bring me back a fire extinguisher!"

Orgle dropped the scooper in shock. "Me?" he gaped, two of his mouths hanging open in astonishment, "Me, go... Up There?"

"Yes!" trilled Crowley, brittle smile on his face, "Yes! Right now! It's very important!"

Orgle looked terrified. "But... I've never been Topside!" he wailed, wringing three of his paws in worry, "I haven't done the Risk Assessment! I haven't had the OH&S briefing! I haven't filled in the _forms_, Mr Crowley!"

"Orgle," Crowley said firmly, grabbing two of the massive forearms, "Orgle, you are one of the up-and-comers. You have initiative, drive, and, and, and, you are the man of the moment, Orgle! I need you now, Orgle! This is, this is, a, a, a... Code A-Red Situation!" he declared emphatically. "I need YOU to go, RIGHT NOW, and get me a FIRE EXTINGUISHER! The safety of Verael's files depends on it!"

Orgle took a deep breath and drew himself to his full height, the light of corporate responsibility shining in all his eyes. "I'm on it, Mr Crowley!" he cried, lumbering off down the corridor and disappearing in a trailing wisp of greasy smoke.

Crowley returned to the increasing conflagration, with the Hellhound yapping and prancing at the blaze like any dog enjoying a good play session with a favourite toy. He grabbed a soda siphon from his bar, and tried to stop it spreading to the 19th century rosewood French bidet, the one that for some reason disturbed even the most senior demons when he received them whilst sitting on it...

"I'm back, Mr Crowley!" Orgle called happily, "With your fire extinguisher!"

Crowley turned.

Orgle stood in the doorway, grinning. He held a rather startled-looking firefighter, clutching a hose, under one arm. The hose was connected to the large red fire truck parked in his outer office, complete with more very confused firefighters hanging off it.

"Marvellous!" Crowley told him, "Just put him down there. Now, chum," he put a friendly arm around the shell-shocked firefighter, "You are a firefighter, there is a fire. Have at it!"

The bug-eyed fireman's mouth opened and shut a couple of times, but then his training took over. He called to his crew, and charged the line.

Ten minutes later, the fire was out, Crowley's office suite was dripping wet, the bidet was barely scorched, and Orgle was taking the fire crew back Topside. He surveyed the damage. It could've been worse; the files on his desk were just a bit damp, so Verael wouldn't be too annoyed. He poured himself a generous glass of a fine single malt scotch.

Looking around, he noticed that Fido had made himself scarce. He decided to send Orgle back to get him some newspapers. Lots and lots of newspapers. Some of them he could put down on the carpet. Some of them, he would roll up, and use to whack that bloody Hellhound on the nose.

**...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... **

The fire crew who had temporarily been shuttled from one vector of the space-time continuum to another that could not be explained by the known laws of physics blinked, and looked at each other. Something... odd had happened. But none of them could remember what. So they got on with mopping up after the fire they'd just put out.

They were all equally perplexed as to how, when they headed back to the station, there were now _two_ Dalmatian mascots happily riding with their noses in the breeze. Nobody knew where the extra had come from, but he was a happy thing, friendly and obedient. When nobody claimed him, they named him Tam, and kept him.

Tam turned out to be a real asset: he had absolutely no fear of fire, and he would lead his crew into the hottest, smokiest burning building to find trapped humans, and never suffered any ill effects. Within six months, he'd won two animal bravery awards.

* * *

><p>We've met Orgle the fiend before, haven't we? Anybody who remembers where can nominate an embarrassing injury for Sam to sustain in the next chapter or so...<p>

Reviews are the Buff Firefighters dangling from the Fire Truck Of Life! (Go ahead and imagine Sam or Dean as firefighters if you like.)


	4. Chapter 3

_Who would win an altercation between Danael and Varael?_ They don't fight. They are sisters, and they share a higher loyalty to the Great God Alphabetical Order. They actually meet up regularly; over a pot of tea and some rather decadent chocolate cookies, they have a good bitch session about the falling standards in their respective domains, The Trouble With Young Angels/Demons Today, and how It Was Different When I Was A Fledgling.

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 3<strong>

"This is embarrassing," muttered Sam.

"No, it's not," replied Dean.

"Yes, it is," Sam repeated more vehemently.

"No, it's not," Dean said again, cutting the chicken into smaller pieces.

"It totally is!" snapped Sam.

"It totally is not!" Dean yapped back, annoyed. "Don't you dare talk to me about embarrassing! Embarrassing is having your baby brother hovering over your bare ass with a pair of tweezers and a flashlight! Embarrassing is being left walking like I've just finished filming on 'Dean Does Dallas'! Embarrassing is not even being able to sit down to drive my car without that damned ring pillow! Embarrassing is..."

"Ahem." Sam cleared his throat, and nodded in the general direction of the rest of the diner, where a dozen other people were watching curiously at the increasingly loud argument between the two men, one of whom was sitting on an inflatable round cushion, and feeding the other one, who had both hands bandaged heavily. "I contend that being fed by your big brother in public, when you're any older than eighteen months, qualifies as embarrassing," Sam went on quietly. "Not to mention being dressed by him..." his face tinged with pink, remembering the morning's appalling experience with Nurse Dean's personal care assistance.

"If it helps, I didn't enjoy it either," humphed Dean, loading the fork with a chunk of chicken and some lettuce. "Now, here you go, Sammy, here comes the choo choo!" He lifted the fork towards his brother's mouth.

"Dean," scowled Sam.

"CHUFF chuffchuffchuff CHUFF chuffchuffchuff CHUFF chuffchuffchuff whoooo-hoooooo!" went Dean with a sunny smile, "Open up the tunnel, here comes the choo-choo!"

"Dean!" snapped Sam, "Cut it out!"

"What, you don't like the choo-choo?" asked Dean in surprised. "You used to like the choo-choo. I know, how about the... airplane! Brrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr," Dean changed his sound effects to twin turbo prop. "Open up, Sammy, the airplane is coming in to land..."

"I'm not opening up for the airplane, Dean," Sam growled.

"Okay, well, propellers are kind of slow and antiquated." Dean switched to a jet fighter noise. "Nyyyyrrrrow! Don't make me have to shoot your mouth open Sam!" he warned, swooping the fork at his brother's face again, "Ack-ack-ack-ack-ack-ack-ack!"

Giving up with a shot of Bitchface #10™ (Tonight, You Die In Your Sleep), Sam opened his mouth and took the forkful of chicken salad.

"Attaboy Sammy!" chirped Dean, loading up the fork again. "Hey, look, this one's a helicopter! Wokka-wokka-wokka-wokka..."

Sam fumed, and ate the next forkful. "So, do you agree that we should take some time off?" he asked. "Seeing as I'm fucking useless like this," he raised his bandaged hands, "Unless you can find a job where there's the spirit of a dead heavy metal fan, and I can head-bang it into submission."

"We should probably head to Bobby's anyway, try to find out what's up with all these spirits," Dean conceded. He was still feeling guilty about the salt and burn gone pear-shaped that had resulted in his little brother getting both hands burned while hauling Dean out of a flaming grave. "There's something freaky going on. Freakier than usual, with ghosts that won't lie down, I mean."

"And I can hardly do research like this," Sam added gloomily. By tucking a pencil into the bandaging on his right hand, he could peck away at the laptop keyboard one key at a time, but it was frustrating. "Why so many restless spirits?" he wondered out loud.

"Did you make any progress on that?" enquired Dean, offering the next forkful with no sound effects.

"Kind of," Sam told him, swallowing, "We've been doing nothing but salt and burns for weeks now. Every single person has been, well, kind of evil. Criminal. Serious offences. Murders, armed robberies, serious assaults. There haven't been any victims coming back to get revenge after they were wronged in life – it's all people who were total assholes at some stage during their lives. If I had to generalise, I'd guess that it's been people who deserve to go to Hell."

"Well, maybe Bobby will have some ideas," suggested Dean, "Me and my pillow will drive you to Bobby's, and the two of you can nerd it up... are you okay, Sam?" he asked as his brother squirmed in his seat.

Sam's face pinked. "Er," he began, "The thing is... the thing is... I need to take a leak..."

"Oh, God," moaned Dean, letting his head fall to the table, "I think I'd rather have the splinters in my ass."

**...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... **

"... So as you can see, Incoming souls for the last several Topside weeks are dropping at an increasing rate," Asmodean droned on. Crowley knew from painful experience that he would have to sit through the entire PowerPoint presentation, right to the bitter end, before the other demon would get to the 'Conclusions' slide, and finally get to the point, so he looked at the graph crammed with far too many data points and far too much text in a font that was too small to read, and waited.

"... In addition, Incoming has experience a number of... unexpected arrivals," he went on, another bar chart flashing up onto the screen. "You'll remember from Slide 63, the fifteenth dot point, I noted that the Hellhounds were bringing back things other than souls, which can be summarised thus..."

It was as crowded and incomprehensible as Asmodean's charts always were, but the general gist was clear. There should have been one bar representing 'souls' brought in by the Hellhounds. There were a lot more, labelled, amongst the ones he could make out, 'soles', 'seals', 'sails', 'poles', 'tug ropes', 'treat balls','squeaky toys' and 'mailman (still alive)'.

"Squeaky toys?" he asked, nonplussed. "You don't mean souls who make frightened squeaking noises, do you?"

Asmodean flipped his laser pointer irritably. "I did mention them, on slide 95," he said a bit sullenly, "This quantifies them. For some reason, the hounds are bringing back an assortment of items instead of souls..."

"And crapping on my carpets," mused Crowley, surreptitiously reaching into his pocket and hitting a button on his phone. What the blazes was going on?

"Now, if you'll look at this table," Asmodean began again, "You'll see that..."

The door flew open with a bang, to reveal an agitated looking fiend.

"Mr Crowley!" said Orgle in a worried voice, "You have to come at once!"

"What? What is it, Orgle?" Crowley sprang from his seat.

"We have a Code A-Red Situation!" yelped Orgle, wringing several of his paws, "It's urgent!"

"Sorry, Asmodean," smiled Crowley, "Duty calls, must dash, absolutely fascinating as usual..."

"But... but..." stuttered Asmodean, his face falling, "I'm only halfway through my slides!"

"Write me a memo!" suggested Crowley breezily as he rushed out the door.

"But I haven't got to the bit about..." it was no good. Crowley was gone. Asmodean sighed. It always made him feel twitchy when he didn't get to finish a presentation. Never mind. Maybe he could get back to the wording of the Mission and Vision statements for Accounting, that always cheered him up.

Around the bend in the corridor, the King of Hell reached up and clapped the fiend on a shoulder. "Orgle, you saved me from a fate worse than death," he sighed in relief, "And I thank you."

"Asmodean did a presentation for us on resource conservation and documentation," Orgle shared.

"Good grief. It's only the Damned who are meant to suffer the tortures of Hell," sympathised Crowley.

"I liked it," replied Orgle, with just a hint of reproach in his voice. "He really takes his job seriously. He can spend days getting a single little animation thing exactly right."

"That doesn't surprise me in the least," Crowley muttered. So, the Hellhounds were acting strangely, and it was affecting the supply of souls. That was bad. Hell ran on souls. If a society was only three meals away from anarchy, Hell was only so many souls away from a coup. He knew that the minute he couldn't make the place run, he would be deposed, and replaced. Whether or not his successor could fix the problem wouldn't actually matter, because even if they couldn't, the act of tearing Crowley into teeny tiny little subatomic particles would at least make the Hierarchy feel better.

Half the trick of ruling Hell – he suspected half the trick of ruling anything – was to give the impression that you knew what was going on, whether you did or not. You fooled some of the people all of the time, and jerked the rest off. This had the disadvantage of meaning that he couldn't actually make direct enquiries without risking revealing his ignorance. Not that he'd have much luck anyway, he suspected – the Hellhounds were right at the bottom of the heap, as far as demons were concerned. They were the dumb animals that brought in the souls, and nobody took much interest in them, the same way that not many humans took much interest in the emotional wellbeing of cockroaches.

Crowley headed back to his office to consider the problem. He needed somebody well versed in supernatural lore, who was also well versed in dealing with dogs. And as far as he knew, no such person existed in Hell...

He was halfway through the bottle of his favourite tipple when he realised that such a person might exist Topside, and he knew just where to find him.

On the way out, he grabbed another bottle of Craig, just in case.

**...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... **

"All right, you," instructed Dean grimly, testing the temperature of the water in the tub, "Get your shaggy, stinky self in here right now."

Nothing happened.

"Look," he went on, "You stink. There is no polite way to put it. Either you get clean, or you travel to Bobby's in the trunk."

A large pair of sad eyes gazed at him unhappily in mute appeal.

"Don't do that," he snapped, "I am immune to your emotional blackmail. See this? This is me laughing in the face of your attempted emotional blackmail. Ha ha."

The same pair of eyes shifted sideways...

"If you dare try to hide under the bed, I swear I will drag you out by the scruff of your neck," warned Dean. "And stop whining!"

The unhappy whimpering stopped.

"You can bring Oinker Stoinker in," offered Dean, "To distract you."

That still didn't have the desired effect.

"If you don't get in there right now," Dean went on, "I will grab you and drag you in there myself. I've done it before, and I'll do it again if I have to."

The reluctant bathee let out a grumpy huff.

"Right," growled Dean, "I am going to count to three. One... two... two and a half... all right, mister," he started pulling his shirt off, "You asked for it."

With a look of utter misery on his face, Sam reluctantly stepped into the tub and carefully sat down, keeping his plastic-bag-wrapped hands out of the water.

"You're bossy," he muttered mutinously. "And I totally hate you."

"Shut up," sighed Dean, picking up the shampoo, "Or I'll put the dog in with you. He could do with a bath, too."

Jimi sat by the tub, and squeaked Oinker Stoinker consolingly. A bath was a terrible ordeal, and he wanted to offer his Second as much moral support as possible.

* * *

><p>I am pining away for reviews - I'm a hopeless addict. Seriously, I started to get the shakes while the plot bunnies went on holidays. Don't feel bad about enabling me; reviews make the plot bunnies whisper louder! Reviews inspire me to write more! Reviews are the Flaming Molotov Cocktail hurled with Great Glee at the Screen That's Showing The Interminable PowerPoint Presentation Of Life! Every time you leave a review, a GWN fairy gets its wings...<p> 


	5. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

Crowley straightened his tie, then straightened his back, and let out the breath he didn't need to take in anyway. It was possible that he might not be entirely warmly welcomed at Singer Salvage, which would be heavily warded, so he would play this one as Mr Manners. Just walk on up to the front door, and knock politely, with no dishonourable intentions, just like ordinary people. Nobody could fault him for that, could they? It should get him past the wards, at any rate. Squaring his shoulders, he marched through the gates. The gargoyles atop the pillars seemed to watch him. He dismissed the thought.

He tried to ignore the way the dog trailed him up the stairs. It would've been less frightening if she'd growled, but she just watched him silently. He gave the animal a quick smile and knocked on the door. He heard footsteps, and it opened.

"Hello, Bobby, mate," he began, proffering the bottle. "Long time no deal! Look, I wonder if I might have a moment of your time..."

Both barrels of salt hit him in the chest, and sent him staggering back down the stairs.

"Ow!' he yelped, inspecting his shirt. "Oh, bugger, this is Italian silk you know..."

Bobby Singer was calmly reloading his shotgun. "And very nice it is, too," he commented. "Understated, but well cut. Would you do me a small favour, Crowley?" he asked pleasantly.

"Er, yes, sure, of course, mate," Crowley grinned slightly desperately.

"Wonderful," smiled Bobby. "Just stand up again, would you? Just there?"

"Er, right, right," answered Crowley, getting to his feet, "If there's something I can help you with, that's something of a coincidence, because I happen to have a little problem myself, and I was hoping that youOOOOOOAAARGH!"

The following two slugs of salt hit him, and stung even worse than the previous load.

"Ow, shit!" Crowley danced up and down, slapping at his chest, "Ow! Bobby, that really hurts! What the fuck is that?"

"Just salt," shrugged Bobby, "Plain ol' sodium chloride. Recrystallised from a saturated solution made in holy water. It's quite pretty, actually, if you filter it first and then let it evaporate, the crystals that grow form the most amazing shapes and arrangements..."

"That's... fascinating," said Crowley, wincing, "The spirit of scientific enquiry, eh?"

"It's how we make progress," nodded Bobby, reloading. "Now, these shells," he explained, "Are the holy water-salt, spiked with consecrated iron birdshot. I'd value your opinion on just how painful it is..."

"Look, I'd be happy to send you some demons to experiment on, if you li-AAAAAAAARRRROOOOW!" howled Crowley, clutching at his chest. "OOOOW! Please, Bobby, that was really painful!"

"What rating would you give it out of ten?" asked Bobby solicitously.

"Um... seven?" suggested Crowley warily.

"Hmmmm, not bad," mused Bobby.

"Have you finished shooting at me?" enquired Crowley.

"What? Oh, yeah," Bobby replied, waving a hand dismissively. "You can go."

"Er, actually," Crowley began carefully, "I came to see you..."

"So you've seen me," grumped Bobby. "Mr Crowley will be leaving now," he announced, apparently to nobody in particular. "Please see that he leaves the premises promptly."

"Bobby," Crowley appealed, "Don't be like that mate, just hear me out..."

The door shut in his face.

Crowley turned when he heard the growl.

The dog that had been shadowing him now sat, crackles of red highlight arcing across her eyes.

"Good girl," he cooed at her, reaching down to pat her head. "I have one of your relatives as a four-legged friend, at least, I did have, before he crapped on my rug, set fire to my office and took off before I could whack him with the newspaper..."

Teeth like butchers' knives extruded from the dog's mouth when his hand got too close.

"Well, then," he slowly withdrew his hand, "You're obviously busy guarding the yard from undesirables, just like me, ha ha, so why don't you just keep guarding, and I'll see if I can get your human here to talk to me..."

He was just raising his hand to knock again when he felt rather than heard the looming presence swoop out of the air behind him.

One of the gargoyles, grinning ferociously, was bearing down on him, with its admittedly impressive phallus in its hands.

"Aaaaaaieeeeee!" Crowley yipped as the thing zipped past and peed a generous squirt of what proved to be holy water at him, hitting him between the eyes. It doubled back, clearly intent on another strafing run.

"Now just a minute, all I want to do is ta-oooowwwww!" he wailed, as the gargoyle breezed past the other way with its leg cocked, hitting him in the ear this time. "Ow! OW! That really hurts! Stop it!"

He had no choice but to run for it, with a half-Hellhound shredding his trouser legs as he went, and two gargoyles dive-bombing him, one of them letting fly with a squirt of holy water each time it got close enough. He sighed. He'd just have to cut his losses, and try to think up something else...

When the Winchesters arrived later that day, Janis was cheerfully chewing up the last of what was most of a very expensive pair of bespoke trousers, while Tiem the gargoyle sported a very tasteful silk and cashmere tie wrapped around his phallus. They didn't know where Zan had nabbed another phone from, but now he had one, presumably he would sit up there on his gate pillar and play Angry Birds until the battery ran out.

**...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... **

"How did your Topside visit go, boss?" asked Orgle, averting all his eyes as he passed a new pair of trousers to Crowley.

"Not as well as I'd hoped, mate," sighed the King of Hell, buttoning his shirt. "They're such transient things, humans, but they can have very, very long memories. Especially this fella. Holds a grudge the way a mother holds an only child, loves it, tends it, lavishes care and attention on it, lives only to see it flourish and grow... Did you iron this? You've done a very good job."

"Actually, it was one of the imps," Orgle informed him.

Crowley's eyes widened. "You let one of them near my wardrobe?" he squeaked.

"They are keen to prove themselves," Orgle said firmly, "And they are just as capable as any fiend, if they are just given a chance."

"Well, that's very... understanding of you," Crowley commented, making a vague mental note to spray for imps the next time housekeeping came through.

"Are you going to try again?" asked Orgle. "Maybe you could drop in to R&D and see what they have that might be useful. I did hear that Kyoo was working on a holy waterproof suit, although I don't know if it would also be effective against gargoyles."

"No, I think in this case it might be best to try to think up another approach," Crowley asserted.

"It does seem a shame that we can't ask, you know, Him," sighed Orgle. "But it's impossible even to get His attention. He argues with Michael constantly. It's like listening to an old married couple. Sometimes," he smiled, "We take lunch down there, and listen to them be rude to each other. He's been around for so long, though, and He knows so much. What would He have done, I wonder?"

Crowley stared at Orgle and a grin broke out on his face. He reached up and hugged the startled fiend.

"Orgle," he pronounced, "You truly are a genius!"

"I am?" asked the fiend, most of his eyes blinking in bemusement.

"Absolutely!" confirmed Crowley. "Now, be a good helpful chap, run along and get me some popcorn. And a choc top. No, two, I always lose half the first one because it's frozen more solid than Varael's heart. I'll be in the AV room."

**...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... **

History schmistory. What is History, except for just one damned thing happening after the other?

Well, for a start, to those in the know, it's a lot less... clean-cut than most people (or indeed sentient beings) think.

It doesn't move like a single line, growing from The Past towards The Future like a tree with a single trunk straining towards the sun. It's more like a coppiced stump, an almost infinite number of possibilities, long and whippy and weak and none more likely to succeed than any of the others. Then, along comes Fate, or Chance, or Free Will, or The Random Motion Of The Universe, to prune and thin the shoots, so that the many become far fewer, and go from being possibilities to probabilities, until finally the moment arrives and there's only one branch left, and that becomes _now_, and it strengthens and solidifies into reality and goes on to sprout its own bristling infinity of possible next moments...

As to how it happens, and why a particular tendril of time gets the gig, that truly is a mystery. Gods have occasionally wielded the secateurs, as have extremely powerful angels or demons, but mostly, it just... happens. Humans certainly don't know _how_. Very few humans even know _that_. The closest they've got so far is one wise man who has postulated that: 'It's probably because of quantum'.

However, just looking at those tendrils of potential that were never realised, if you know how and where to look, is much easier. Especially the ones that almost-were, because they grew and became stronger as they almost occurred, before they withered.

It takes a lot of power to look at possible alternative histories, but Crowley thoroughly enjoyed the abuse of his position to drain as much of Hell's juice for his own purposes – or simple amusement – as he liked. (Of course, he knew he'd get a message from the demon in charge of Engineering, in an accent so thick that Crowley wouldn't understand him if they hadn't both been born into the same geographical region as humans: "I canno' give ye any morrre, Crrroooley, we're roonnin' the ferrrrnaces a' 110 percent, she canno' take any morrre...")

So, Crowley settled himself on his leather recliner, fired up the plasma screen, and started to sort through what might have been.

Somewhere, in a possible history, somebody else had been in charge. In all those limitless possible scenarios for now, somebody had encountered this problem too. And somebody had already figured out how to deal with it.

He searched. He screened. He backtracked. Fairly quickly, he honed in on the alternative streams of time that seemed strongest, the Pasts that nearly happened but didn't, the Runners-Up in the How Events Played Out pageant. It all coalesced, and revolved around a few key players, two in particular...

He groaned when his final results fell out. Them. It was truly proof that the universe hated him personally.

He had to admit, though, some of the also-rans that never happened were pretty entertaining...

_The funny thing about the Winchester boys was that they never argued, not as children, not even as teenagers, and certainly not as adults. Even when Dean babysat his niece and nephews while Sam and Jess headed off on a much-needed two week break, teaching them to fish, shoot, play poker, hustle pool and, for the eldest two, sneak into bars, all Sam did was roll his eyes and say "Deeeeeean"..._

Crowley went "Awwwwwww."

_Mary worried for her boys, long after they were adults who had grown up and left the nest. She felt she had just cause: one drove Formula One racing cars, the other was a Marine. On the occasions when they were both back in the family home, they both argued vehemently that they each had the less dangerous job._

Crowley mimed sticking a finger down his throat.

_Sam wrestled with his vocation for a lot longer than his brother did. When he finally entered the Order, Dean was a senior monk held in high regard, especially by his seminary students, where he taught Latin in a style that had budding Jesuits crying with laughter more often than not. Sam became a scholar of Church law, while Dean fought being kicked too far upstairs, preferring to stay where he could still do practical mission work. When the beloved old abbot finally died in his late 80s, it was said that his younger brother knew before one of the Vatican cardinals gently broke the news, and died of grief just a couple of weeks later, because even when they were on opposite sides of the world, everybody knew that the brothers were never really separated..._

Crowley chortled.

_When Dean, aged seventeen, announced that he wanted to be known as Deanna and live as a woman, nobody was really surprised. What did surprise everybody was his father's reaction. John had hugged his first-born, and said that he didn't care if she wanted to identify as a frog, she was his child, and he would love her. Ten years later, he beamed proudly as he walked Deanna down the aisle, to give her away in marriage to Jimmy (who had actually been born Jemima Novak, but had identified as male before even getting to high school)..._

Crowley giggled.

_The fashion industry could be bitchy, but that never worried Sam Winchester – he could out-bitch them all, with one perfectly shaped eyebrow tied behind his back, and everybody knew it. Nobody ended up on the receiving end of one of his infamous epically atomic bitchfaces and walked away unscathed. Even the most resentfully envious of his critics had to admit that, season after season, he delivered the hottest designs on the runway. The fact that he had his sinfully gorgeous brother modelling his most daring creations didn't do his brand any harm at all..._

Crowley howled with laughter.

_Mary hugged her boys and watched as the house burned, with her husband still inside. Not that he was alive when he burst into flames on the ceiling. She'd hunt down that yellow-eyed bastard, and make him pay for what he'd done..._

Okay, getting closer...

_Dean had been raised with one primary instruction: protect your brother. The night Sam and his father argued about schooling yet again, that's exactly what he did; when John raised a hand to his younger son for the last time, Dean double-tapped him between the eyes. Sam sobbed with gratitude, and hugged his brother tightly, eyes whirling gently yellow..._

Definitely getting closer...

_Two weeks after John Winchester went to his rest in an unmarked grave, Azazel got the fright of his life – or his death – when the pupil surpassed the master. Little Sammy Winchester, eyes blazing yellow, burned him right out of his meatsuit, then right out of his existence..._

The expression on that smug bastard's face was priceless, Crowley decided, giving Azazel a little wave as the demon disintegrated.

_He dragged Lilith to the altar by her hair. He could've just burned her, but he let his grinning brother use the knife on her. It took Lilith a much longer time to expire in this variant of history..._

Crowley was impressed by Dean's knife work. No wonder so many of the demons who'd seen him were still in awe. Talk about the pupil surpassing the master.

_Sam was so terribly convincing, wearing the brimming puppy-dog eyes when he said 'Yes' to Lucifer in a trembling voice. Which just went to show that selective breeding could be too unpredictable, and too successful. Together, the Winchesters threw both Michael and Lucifer into the Cage, then Sam did something else with the Horsemen's rings, and the gateway to Hell... shifted... Castiel and Bobby arrived just in time to see the boys give them cheerful waves, then laughingly jump in. Dean went 'Wheeeeeeeeeee!' all the way..._

Crowley smiled, and hit, what for the purposes of story-telling, we shall call 'Fast Forward'...

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><p>Not quite sure where this idea came from; this little black bunny was just twitching its nose appealingly. I've wondered what it would be like to write evil!Sam and demonic!Dean. I might be about to find out...<p>

Reviews are the Adorable Gargoyles Perched Upon the Gates Of Your House to Keep Away the Demons Of Real Life!


	6. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5**

The good thing about the new Lord of Hell – apart from the fact that he imposed order, efficient function, and the sort of stability that let the Hierarchy get on with their endless plotting and scheming and machinations against each other – was that he was a lot less volatile than Lucifer had been. Why, when Archduke Belaal had ranted angrily about how he was not going to defer to some child who'd gotten ideas above his station, he'd listened politely and attentively for fully five minutes before he'd smilingly gestured and the angry old demon had exploded. In fairness, he hardly ever burned out anyone, unless they'd really really REALLY annoyed him. The point was, he did it POLITELY, and good manners carried a lot of weight with the Hierarchy.

Unfortunately, the same could not be said for his self-appointed minder, who'd been born his brother.

The man was a complete oaf. The Red Throne, the ornate chair of highest office, used by Lucifer for countless ages to receive petitions and homage, was shoved aside after the Lord of Hell declared it pompous, ridiculous and uncomfortable. His brother sometimes sprawled in it, cleaning his nails with _that_ knife, ostensibly lost in the study of his cuticles while actually watching everything and everyone in the room, alert for the first hint that an aggrieved member of the Hierarchy might be willing to try to make a play for power. Although, when he summarily - and fairly messily - dealt with the group of young nobles who began plotting to overthrow the Boy King, even the most traditional demons had to admit that the boy had a real talent.

There were some bright moments, too. Even the most cynical of the Hierarchy smiled when old Alistair was tearfully reunited with his favourite student. Something had gone out in the heartbroken Rackmaster when his terrified protégé had been torn from his side that awful day, wailing for his beloved teacher as the angel dragged him away. The return of his pupil re-ignited the Rackmaster's passion for his work, and the Apprentice (as the upstart oaf insisted on calling himself in deference to his revered mentor, though he had long since surpassed his master) made a point of regularly spending time with Alistair at the racks. He proved to be a capable teacher himself, with a very practical approach to passing on his skills. The younger demons in the lower levels of the Pit idolised him.

So now, the Throne Room (which the Lord of Hell had renamed The Unattractive Office) contained just a plain desk with a laptop on it, and some chairs. There was also a bright yellow bouncy castle, because the Boy King's brother had wanted one.

Some of the more senior demons had suggested as diplomatically as possible that the presence of a bouncy castle, and the King's own brother bouncing enthusiastically on it, might detract somewhat from the gravitas of his position. His Majesty had pointed out that leaving his brother to find his own amusements was likely to be worse. He reminded them of The Maraca Incident, in which his brother has donned a hat made of fruit, and danced about shaking a pair of maracas, singing "Christo christo chris-TO! Christo christo chris-TO!" until everybody had a terrible headache. They had conferred, and then collaborated to install a fairy floss machine and duck shooting gallery for him as well. The odd pellet in the back of the head was a small price to pay for knowing that the Lord of Hell's brother was less likely to get a sudden burning desire to see what your insides looked like, and decide that he wanted to know RIGHT NOW.

So his happy, bouncing cries sometimes interrupted the business of Hell, but the Lord of Hell just smiled indulgently at seeing his big brother and protector so happy. (Some female demons had hinted that the bouncy castle saw other uses after hours, but would just smile archly when pressed for details.) He never could deny his big brother anything.

Except for the music thing.

It was perhaps inevitable that they would bicker – they were brothers, after all, and sometimes sniped at each other in a way that put some more observant demons in mind of Lucifer and Michael – but the Lord of Hell was adamant that he would not let his brother play the music he preferred in The Unattractive Office. He could inflict his taste in entertainment on the rest of Hell, but not where His Majesty had to work. His big brother whined, pleaded, threatened, and did everything he could to annoy his younger sibling.

When the Lord of Hell finally did lose his temper, it was at once terrifying, yet strangely amusing.

"I am not going to listen to that crap you call music, Dean!" he had raged, making the very foundations of Hell shake, "I have been listening to that music since I was born! I can't stand it! First Dad made me listen to it! Then you made me listen to it! I'm not a kid to be told to what to do, Dean! I'm not an infant to be told to eat my vegetables or go to bed any more! I am an adult! I am capable of making my own decisions! I AM LORD OF HELL AND THE MOST EVIL FUCKER IN CREATION AND I WILL NOT LISTEN TO BON JOVI!"

He actually stamped his foot. It would take the Infernal masons a week to repair the floor.

"Whoa, Sammy, chillax, dude," his brother had frowned, completely unconcerned, "You need to unwind, you know? You spend all your time running this place, and don't let yourself have enough fun! You gotta slow down from time to time, enjoy the moment, just take a minute to stop, and destroy the roses. Alistair tells me he just got a couple of really juicy televangelists in, why don't you take an afternoon off, we'll pack some lunch, put some beer in the cooler, and have us some fun at the racks?"

The Boy King pulled one of the faces that made the most hardened courtiers of Lucifer flinch.

"Don't bitchface at me, Your Elongated Evil Emoness," his protector had gone on, "Seriously, you work too hard. You gotta take some time off for yourself. You need to get laid, Sam."

"Jerk," the miffed monarch had muttered, although he had allowed himself to be persuaded to spend fifteen minutes horsing around on the bouncy castle.

There had been a brief period of chaos after that, what with the Boy King's brother commandeering the services of all the minions of Darkness to scour all of Hell for certain individuals. When a trembling fiend finally returned with the list, to report that a thorough search had not located Mr Scott, Mr Lynott, Mr Hendrix, Mr Bonham, Mr Moon, Mr Burton, Mr Rhodes, Mr Mercury, Mr Dio, any of the Messrs Ramone or Miss Joplin, he had been sad rather than angry – he thanked them for their efforts, and moped about having to cancel plans for the most awesome jam session that Creation had ever witnessed.

The Lord of Hell rarely actually used the computer on his desk – he kept everything in his head, including facts, figures, information, intelligence, details of the interminable and convoluted nest of snakes that was Infernal politics, and grudges – but it seemed to be a habit that he was in no hurry to break. Besides which, his brother liked to use it to look at pictures of unclad human bodies.

The habit was perplexing to the Hierarchy, because the most powerful factions of Hell practically fell over themselves to curry favour by proffering their most attractive and nubile daughters and sons in enticing physical form. The Boy King's brother could have his pick, really, and frequently did, although none yet had caught the interest of the Younger Who Was Greater. Privately, the most astute demons suspected that he did that on purpose, keeping all factions hoping, allowing none such a crucial advantage as having produced the consort who warmed the Lord of Hell's bed. Or bouncy castle.

(There were foolhardy demons who claimed to have seen the interior of their private suite with separate beds, and spread tales to the effect that they did not actually fornicate with each other at all, they just slept in the same room out of habit. Most demons ignored that rumour as utterly improbable. This was the Lord of Hell and his pitbull of a brother, after all. Privately, the Lord of Hell had raised an eyebrow, but his brother had laughed, and pointed out that sometimes it was just as much fun to pretend to be totally perverted, and let everyone think that you were utterly depraved.)

His Shaggy Hellness, as his brother also grinningly titled him, conducted the business of running Hell in The Unattractive Office. The day to day workings, the petitions, the negotiating, the horse trading, the manoeuvring, the vast majority of it was all done in a very open way, in front of anybody who cared be present to listen in. It was completely unlike the private, unseen machinations of Lucifer's court. The elder demons suspected he did that on purpose, too. His brother also liked to 'work' in public.

"I have asked you to put down a tarp or something before you do that," His Majesty said reprovingly, as the body of another would-be coup participant hit the floor with a squelch.

"I have tried," his brother replied, cutting the carcass's throat and reaching for the goblet on the desk, "But the last time I asked someone to stand on a drop sheet, he ran away. I had to chase him down! It was Duke Ganthery – how the hell anyone that fat could move so fast is a mystery. I had to go find someone who'd worked on a whaling ship to show me how to flense blubber before I could show him his own stomach!"

"Did you ask nicely?" pressed His Lordship, holding out his hand.

"Yeah," answered his brother defensively, handing over the goblet.

"Dean," the Boy King went on, "We have talked about this. Yelling 'Get on the damned tarp or I'll make you eat _both _your own kidneys before we're done here!' does not constitute 'asking nicely'." He sipped at his drink. "Hmmmm, nice, good length, with overtones of fear and selfishness. See if you can save some of that."

"I wish you'd said earlier," grumped his brother, signalling for a lesser demon to fetch a mop and a strainer, "I wouldn't have made so many holes."

"If you'd had a tarp down, all you'd need would be a funnel," the Lord of Hell turned back to the business at hand. "Now, Duke Anghaal," he smiled, "What were you saying?"

"The... problem is becoming more noticeable, Sire," the senior demon tried to tear his eyes from the mess on the floor, "The souls are not arriving as they should. There is some impediment. Hell cannot run without an adequate supply of damned souls, as well you know."

"You mean, Hell cannot supply you with enough juice to enjoy your petty intrigues, outrageous diversions and general ongoing debauchery in the manner to which you have become accustomed since I took over," smiled the tall figure at the desk.

His brother looked up casually from his poking at the demon's remains.

"Er, quite, Sire," stumbled the demon, "But you have to acknowledge, it is a problem."

"The sinful individuals are dying. The souls are still there," the insufferably young Ruler of Dis pointed out, "If you're so worried, why not just dispatch some of your lesser gofer demons to fetch them?"

His brother snorted with stifled laughter as a ripple of barely suppressed outrage went through the milling Hierarchy.

"I believe that you may be aware," the elder demon proceeded carefully, "That the actual fetching of damned souls is considered... lowly, even for the most humble of demons. Which is why the Hellhounds are sent to do that task."

"Ah, the Brahmins demand a good supply of Untouchables to clean the bathrooms, sweep the gutters, pick up the shit, and fetch the souls," the boyish face smiled in genuine amusement. The demons who were most culturally aware were considering whether that remark was a joke or an insult when a well-dressed, if somewhat less lavishly attired, individual approached the desk.

"Crowley," the Boy King looked up from the files he was perusing and smiled, those deceptive dimples showing, "What's up? You look worried about something."

"We have a problem, Sam," Crowley began without preamble. The Hierarchy who were gathered around sneered at the upstart little wretch's familiarity – if he wasn't the trusted lieutenant who ensured that the Boss's orders were carried out, and Hell ran smoothly, someone would've turned him into a little sulphurous smear by now. "Have you seen the latest returns?"

"Right here," the Lord of Hell waved the file he was reading. "Although they are late. I believe that may be your fault, Dean – don't think I haven't seen you flirting outrageously with Varael. She always misfiles things when you're leaning over her shoulder like that."

His brother grinned. "I'm working up to pulling the clip out of her bun," he smirked, "Do you think I can do it without getting smited?"

"If you are not careful, one of these days, she will drag you into the Archives, and I hope she snaps it off," His Lordship pronounced.

"There's something really attractive about an older woman who knows how to take charge," sighed his protector happily.

"Nonetheless, I would appreciate it if you would avoid distracting her when she's preparing the weekly updates," he was told. "So, Crowley, having a bit of trouble in the kennels, are we?"

"Er, yes, frankly," Crowley went on. "They're... losing focus. Not bringing back the souls they're supposed to fetch. They appear to be forgetting what they're supposed to do, as soon as they get Topside. Even Downstairs, we've had reports of decidedly... dog-like behaviour."

"Dog-like behaviour?" asked a dignified demon in a disdainful voice.

"Dog-like, but not Hellhound-like," Crowley clarified. "They're behaving less like Hellhounds, and more like... just dogs."

"I'm pretty sure one of them crapped under my desk a couple of days ago," His Lordship nodded. "I lost my shoe."

"No, that was me," said his brother, carefully teasing something glistening, red and wobbly out of the remains before him.

"You are gross, dude," the Boy King rolled his eyes. "And if you're not joking, I am suspending your rack access for three days."

"Just kidding," his brother flashed the smile that made female demons (and, in fact, some of the male ones) go as wobbly as the red glistening thing at the knees. "Hey, which bit is this?" he asked, lifting it up to show his brother.

"That's the self-interest gland, I think," his younger brother was already studying the file again.

"Hmmmmm," the dissector looked thoughtful. "If I got a whole bunch of demons and pulled this bit out, do you think I could make an army of compliant docile slaves who would do my bidding?" he asked hopefully.

"I don't know, Dean," came the equable answer, "You could try it on half a dozen or so, and see how it goes."

"A zombie demon army that follows my every order!" enthused the would-be general. "Get me beer! Make my bed! Fix me a sandwich! Bring me pie!"

"You have intact demons to do all that for you," his brother pointed out.

"Yeah, but these ones, these ones, they'd do what they were told without bitching about it to each other!" His big brother was imagining his malleable minions. "Watch out, Sammy, I'll march them into your office, and take over Hell!"

"Cool," the Lord of Hell shrugged, "I've been looking for a way to get you to help me with some of this paperwork."

"Something must be done, Sire!" insisted one of the demons.

"Don't worry, he'll lose interest the second he finds out just how many reports he has to read," the Boy King assured the worried demon.

"No, no, no, about the Hellhounds!"

"Oh, yes, of course. Matters are in hand," he was assured.

"But the Hellhounds are forgetting their purpose!" the old demon insisted, as his contemporaries discreetly edged away from him. The Boy King's brother was giving him That Look, which always left the recipient unsure as to whether he was contemplating performing a ritual disembowelment or oral sex on them.

"Then they must be reminded," sighed the Lord of Hell, pinching the bridge of his nose. "They need a leader, to tell them what to do, train them, work them as a pack."

A dignified demon lady spoke up. "Sire, there has not been a Dominican for countless ages," she pointed out. "It is a duty with... unique requirements. Chief among them, being able to discipline Hellhounds without being torn to shreds. Such individuals are rare. It is beneath you, and your brother... has assigned himself other duties. Hence the vacancy of the post for so long."

"Dominican?" asked the older brother, poking at a particularly offensive callus on one hand with _that_ knife, "Isn't 'Dominican' a flavour of monk?"

"The title is a bastardisation drawn from the tongue of the Church," the demon lady explained patiently, as if to a particularly slow fiend, "Combining 'dominus', meaning lord, or master, and 'canis', meaning dog, or hound. 'It could mean, 'The Hound of the Lord', or possibly 'The Lord of Hounds', since the inflections are lost. Of course, it doesn't specify _which_ Lord," she concluded with a small smirk, "And it is conferred upon the... individual who oversees and controls the Hellhounds at the behest of the Lord of the Red Throne..."

She stuttered to a halt when she found that her Lord's brother was watching her. Inwardly, she sighed – her affairs were in order, and all she could do now was hope for oral sex...

"I think, Dame Ghazoria, that my brother was making a joke," suggested their sovereign politely.

"Indeed," the demon nodded an apology. "The point remains, though, that..."

"A previous occupant of this room, if not this exact chair, foresaw this problem arising," their Boy King waved a hand, "And took steps to arrange matters to... furnish us with such an individual. My predecessor, like his Father and siblings, was a master of the long game. Over to you, Dean," he smilingly turned to his brother, who grinned back.

"I think you'll like our choice," he grinned at the wary assemblage. "It took a long time to break the required soul, but I gave the matter my personal attention, and the results will speak for themselves. Speaking of which," he glanced down at the watch that he still affected to wear, "Five, four, three, two, one..."

The massive doors that Lucifer himself had seen installed purely for theatrical effect banged open. A couple of unwary demons who were not quick enough to get out of the way squawked in fright.

The figure that made its way slowly towards the desk had once been human, or close to it, but all souls broke on the rack, sooner or later. It was heavily muscled, grim faced, and altogether not attractive.

The hissing Hierachy spat their disapproval.

"Sire," began Ghazoria, levelly, as the figure approached, "This is an outrage. This is an insult. You must know this. This is an... abomination!"

"You bring before us an abomination... and _Hunter_!" another female demon did not succeed in hiding her disgust. "You cannot allow _that_ to pollute even the lowest pits of Hell!"

A callused hand shot out and grabbed the disgusted demon by the throat. A face with a grin distorted by two long, yellowed canine fangs came alarmingly close to her face, and sniffed, like an animal familiarising itself with a new scent.

"I will remember you," a quiet voice rumbled for the hearing of the gaping demon only, before the newcomer resuming the trek to the desk, then went down on one knee before the Lord of Hell.

"I don't like to stand on ceremony here, as any of my adoring subjects will confirm," he laughed, raising the figure by the hand. "It's good to see you again."

The smile he received was almost brilliant, marred only by the canines. "A working dog must have a master," he was told. "It is the way of things."

"Well, I have a job for you," he went on, "And I think you'll like it."

His brother's presence provoked a wary glance, but he just gave a cheerful thumbs up as the Lord of Hell continued. "You will Hunt with your dogs. Just like you always did. You'd like that, wouldn't you?"

"I was a Hunter." It was said slowly, as if the memory was of something that happened in the far distant past.

"You were a Hunter," he confirmed. "There is a pack of working dogs who need a firm but loving leader, to teach them, guide them, keep them in order. Will you do this for me?"

The smile was all the answer he needed.

"Excellent!" He turned to face the assembled Hierarchy, most of whom had their horrified reactions under control. "Ladies and gentlemen, I give you, the Dominicana." Dean began to applaud and cheer enthusiastically, and the demons reluctantly joined in.

Sam bent down. "Your life was just practice for this, your true purpose and role," he whispered in her ear, "And you know it. Call your pack to you, Ronnie. Give these smug assholes a show. Scare the shit out of them."

Tears of happiness spilling from her eyes, the Dominicana loosed her wings, threw back her head, and howled with joy. The demons shuddered to hear answering howls come from all the corners of Hell.

**...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... **

Crowley felt like an idiot. Why hadn't he thought of that? It happened every day – people had trouble with their dog's behaviour, they sought the services of a dog trainer, someone who knew what they were doing, someone who had experience. A werewolf who had Hunted with dogs was the perfect candidate to bring them into line.

He watched the screen, as the new Hellhound wrangler, the Dominicana, called out and faced down the largest and most savage of them, the Alpha male, leader in the absence of other guidance. She stared him down, spoke to him in a language he understood, until he submitted, sitting down with his ears drooping, and tentatively offered a paw the size of a truck's hubcap.

The Dominicana reached up, put her arms around his stinking neck, and hugged him.

"Good boy," she crooned. The Hellhound's tail began to wag. "This is Belisarius," she told the Lord of Hell, "And he will be Second of my pack."

It was the closest thing to an infernal Hallmark moment he'd ever seen. A chorus of small noises that sounded suspiciously like 'Awwwwwww's and then a ripple of applause ran around the room. The Lord of Hell beamed. His brother surreptitiously wiped his eyes.

Sighing in relief now he had a strategy, Crowley stood up.

_squelch_

He sighed, and wondered if it might be worth getting in a kiddy pool full of sand to use as a litter tray in the mean time.

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><p>Is it just me, or did evil!Sam come perilously close to channelling The Havelock Vetinari Within?<p>

I love me some reviews! They make the bunnies whisper! They make the GWN fairies reproduce! Reviews are the Bouncy Castles With Giggling Winchesters On Board in The Unattractive Office of Life!


	7. Chapter 6

Is it egotistical that I'm missing getting so many reviewers for my stuff, or am I just a hopeless addict? *sniff* There aren't even enough to crew the DDD&AAA van...

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><p><strong>Chapter 6<strong>

As one of Crowley's countrymen once wrote, the best laid schemes o' mice an' men and self-proclaimed Kings of Hell gang aft agley.

Veronica Shepherd was born into a Hunting family, the eldest daughter of a Hunter and one of the most powerful White Witches on the Eastern seaboard of Australia. Although he never said anything, her mother knew that her father wanted a son. In pride and arrogance, she attempted a spell to arrange just that; when the child was born, she had to acknowledge herself humbled – some things are just so deeply and fundamentally untouchable that any attempt to interfere with them is doomed to failure. Or, possibly, only partial success.

For her trouble, she gained a daughter who could barely be described as 'handsome' by a generous observer. She showed no interest in the Craft – part of her mother's punishment, perhaps – but her father trained her for the Hunt from the age of seven. Len Shepherd didn't care if she would never win any beauty contests: his eldest could throw a punch that would stop a football player, for which the Hunter in him was grateful, and her face and physique scared boys away from her, for which the Dad in him was even more grateful.

Bitten by an Old North Werewolf a week before her eighteenth birthday, she'd known what she was, and had run for it. Her father had come after her, loaded with silver. When he confronted her, she'd disarmed him and broken his arm.

_...And the trunk of now had split into a multitude of possible futures, two of which were the strongest of the bristling bunch of maybes. As the wise man who postulated about quantum would've described it, she fell into the Trousers of Time, and had to go down one leg, or the other..._

She took a conscious decision to make sure he'd never come after her again: she shot him with his own gun, then returned home, and gutted her mother, who'd scried to find her. She left home, Hunter and Hunted, and never looked back.

She found she revelled in the strength the wolf gave her – it made her an even better Hunter. By dint of some diligent research and good luck, she'd managed to blackmail a newly commissioned crossroads demon into granting her control of the shapeshift – she was Hellbound anyway, she reasoned, she might as well enjoy herself before she burned.

And, if she was honest, tearing fuglies limb from limb with her bare hands – or bare paws – proved to be so much more _fun_ that shooting, stabbing or igniting them.

That went for Hunters who tried to kill her, too.

When her own country proved too small to be safe, Ronnie Shepherd became something of an urban legend among Hunters in the US, a fugly that Hunted, ran with at least one half-mad dog at her side, and would cheerfully gut any Hunter who tried to take a shot at her. Word soon got around that she never ran from a fight; she would stand, and kill, every time. Unless the Hunter was a cute guy, then she might have another sort of fun instead. Or first. She rarely spent any money on dog food, finding it easy to keep her Hunting dogs in fresh meat.

Dean Winchester was the last man she ever molested, but luckily for him, his brother unloaded a full clip of silver ammo into her before she could punch through his sternum and snack on his heart. (He wouldn't talk about it, but Sam knew just how traumatised he was, because Dean didn't go chasing tail for, like, an _entire __week _afterwards.) She died laughing in his horrified face. She might've been a bit more gentle if she'd known who'd finally take her apart Downstairs. But probably not.

Crowley would console himself later that he didn't really go off half-cocked. It was reasonable to assume that in this timeline she was the same adorably lecherous and murderous she-monster – he thought he might be falling in love just a little bit – because the other strand, well, it was so utterly improbable... He was five eighths cocked, at least. Three quarters, absolute minimum.

**...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... **

"Uh-huh... uh-huh... how many?" Bobby spoke into the land line as he scanned another email and peered at an image sent to his cell. Hunters all over the country were calling him with stories similar to what the Winchesters had reported: a jump in the number of salt and burns to the point where that seemed to be all that anybody was doing.

Thankfully, no other Hunters were storming around the house raging about some lost item, or whining about being required to maintain a minimum standard of personal hygiene.

"Actually, yeah, I'm workin' on it already... uh-huh... send me what you go, and I'll let you know as soon as I figure anything out."

An ominous crashing cascade that sounded suspiciously like something being pulled from the top of a closet drifted down to him from upstairs.

"No, no, it's fine," he reassured his caller, "I think it's just the ladies swingin' their handbags at each other again. Okay. Bye." Rolling his eyes, he put down the phone, and went to investigate.

"You've stolen it!" he heard Dean's voice accuse.

"I haven't!" Sam defended himself.

"You totally have!" Dean was adamant.

"I have not!" Sam insisted. "I can't even hold a pen properly like this!" He waved his bandaged hands about.

"You used your fucking teeth, then!" raged Dean, flinging a pillow at his brother.

"Ow! Dean! What the hell? And you accuse me of being hormonal!" Sam shot back. "Go take some Midol and lie down. On your stomach," he added, not being able to resist twisting the knife just a teensy leetle bit.

"SHUT UP YA IDJITS!" Bobby roared, causing both Winchesters to subside to glowering at each other. "God's tits, what the hell's going on? I don't recall giving permission for World War Three to kick off under my roof," he glowered right back at them.

"Sam's taken it!" Dean fumed. "He's taken it, because I've made him bathe! He's done it to make my life hell!"

"I did not take it!" Sam yelled, giving his brother a shot of Bitchface #8™ (You Are Now Officially Talking Complete Shit, Dean), although if I had, it would totally serve you right, because I do not stink and since when has your delicate nose been so sensitive that you can't leave me alone until I can wash properly by myself!"

"It's your disgusting funk," Dean muttered, "That revolting mix of hairdressing products, fermenting bean salad and emoness. And stealing it will NOT stop me making you get clean, bitch! I don't have to sit down to wash you!"

"I said SHUT UP!" Bobby barked, bringing both combatants to a halt. "The phones haven't stopped ringing, I'm trying to collate reports from a dozen other Hunters who've been dealing with the same surplus sassy spirits you guys encountered, and your little hissy fits aint helping!"

"He stole it!" Dean accused sullenly, "He stole my cushion! He's annoyed because I make him have a bath, which I DO NOT enjoy EITHER, by the way, don't flatter yourself, Francis, so he's stolen my ring cushion!"

"I did not steal your damned cushion!" Sam repeated. "You must've left it somewhere!"

"Then we'll find the cushion," Bobby placated, "Try that green one with the fringy things. Meanwhile, inflatable ring cushions are not noted for any occult tendencies, it won't have gone far..."

"Rowf!" Jimi woofed anxiously as he stuck his head around the door, wanting to see what his Pack was up to.

"See? You're upsetting your dog," Bobby scolded them both, "Now, stop your yelling, and we'll find your damned cushion, Dean."

"Er," Sam began, "I think it's been... found."

"Rowf," offered Jimi again, wagging his tail and depositing the chewed remains of the inflatable cushion, apparently the natural prey of the half-Hellhound in the wild, at Dean's feet.

Dean fell to his knees. "Nooooooo!" he wailed in despair, picking up the sad, deflated corpse of his ring pillow, "How could you do this? Why? Why? Curse you, Fate!" He shook his fist at the ceiling. He turned narrowed eyes on Sam. "Did you give him my cushion as a chew toy?" he demanded. "Is this your idea of a joke?"

"No!" Sam snapped, "I am not nearly as obsessed with your cushion as you are!"

"Believe me, Sam," Dean snarked, "If you were the one who'd been thrown ass-first through that fence, the welfare of your cushion would be more important to you than knowing the location of the nearest hairbrush! That's how important it would be!"

"It's probably because it smells so strongly of you," Bobby tried to referee, checking his phone as yet another message came in, "On account of you havin' been sitting on it all the time."

Dean peered at the dog. "Oh, God, Jimi," his voice wavered, "Is this some sort of creepy seat-sniffing? Not cool, J-Man, not cool..."

"Go find another cushion, then, just shut the hell up," instructed Bobby as his cell rang again. "Singer," he barked into it.

"Bobby, thank fuck," gibbered a frantic voice rapidly, "Bobby, please, pleasepleaseplease don't hang up, I really need your help, I'm in a bit of a aaaAAAAAARRRGH!" _*click*_

Bobby blinked at his phone in confusion.

"Something wrong?" asked Dean, seeing his expression.

"I'm not sure," replied the old Hunter, staring at his phone. "Sounded like someone in trouble, but I don't recognise the number..."

"Could somebody be having trouble with all these angry spirits?" asked Sam.

"Not sure." Bobby tried to call back, but there was no answer. "Guess we'll have to wait to find out," he observed grimly.

A few minutes later, his cell rang again. He flicked it onto speaker phone.

"Bobby!" the voice shrieked again. "Bobby! Bobby, mate, you have to help me! I'm being tortured here, Bobby, they're ruthless, they're monsters..."

"Hold up, where are you?" Bobby asked urgently, "And who is this? You need back-up?"

"Yes! Yes!" the clipped accent agreed fervently, "I need back-up! Or at the very least, a character reference!"

"Character reference?" Dean blinked, nonplussed. "What sort of a Hunt is this? Hey, what are you up against?"

"Bloody werewolves!" came the plaintive reply. "And this shirt was clean on today! OOOOOO AAAAAAARGH! Oh, you utter cow, this is Italian silk!"

"What the hell?" Bobby and both Winchesters stared at the phone in incomprehension.

"What? Oh, not again," the voice practically wailed, "I thought we talked about this, it's 'manu _dei__'_, it's the adjective here, it's not a noun..."

"Is that," Sam started hesitantly, "Is that... Bobby, is that _Crowley_?"

"Crowley, you asshole, is that you?" demanded Bobby.

"Oh, Bobby, you don't know how good it is to hear you!" The voice dripped relief, then sounded annoyed, apparently speaking to someone else at the other end of the line again. "What do you mean, how would I know? Not only did I have it beaten into me as a child, I'm a fucking _demon_, you bloody pillock! Bobby, love, I'm being tortured by an idiot, here, honestly, the man's Latin is worse than his biteaaaaaAAAAAARRRGH!" _*click*_

The line went dead.

The three of them stared at the phone.

"Why would Crowley be trying to call you?" wondered Sam.

"It's a good question," mused Bobby. "He did drop in on me, a few hours before you arrived."

"Yeah? What did he want?" asked Dean suspiciously.

"He said he had a little problem," Bobby recalled.

"What sort of problem?" asked Sam.

"No idea," replied Bobby, a little smugly, "I tested out my holy-water-boosted spiked salt rounds on him. He gave them seven out of ten for pain. Then Janis and the gargoyles escorted him from the premises."

"That would explain Tiem's tie," mused Sam. "He's going to frighten the vicar again, with it wrapped around his, er, organ like that."

"Demons don't make social calls," Dean said firmly, "If he came to see you, he wanted something."

"Could it be to do with all the salt and burn jobs cropping up?" asked Sam. "I did notice that all the ones we encountered were probably bound for Hell."

"It might be," Bobby mused, "Much as I hate the idea, it might be a good idea to see what he has to say."

"Oh, I dunno," grinned Dean, "Sounds like somebody's having fun at his expense – do we really want to interrupt that?"

Bobby's cell rang yet again.

"All right, Crowley," he snapped, "What do you want?"

"Bobby," the demon pleaded, "Get me out of here, mate, in the name of all you hold dear, heeeeeelp meeeeee..."

"I'll think about it," Bobby replied brusquely, ignoring Crowley's distressed cries, "But first, tell me what you wanted to see me for the other day."

"I would if I could!" wailed the Demon King, "But they won't leave me alone! OOOOOOOOW! No, no, no, NO, it's a plural, will you be told? _'__Adversarii__'_, ad-ver-SAR-ree-EYE, oh, you're useless, don't give up your day job, you prat, you're worse than aaaaaaaaAAAAAAAAGH!"

"Crowley, what the fuck are you playing at?" demanded Bobby.

"Just summon me, Bobby!" yelped Crowley, "If you have an ounce of mercy in you, summon me! What? Let me see... no, I don't think you've got that quite right, really, you'll be wasting your time AAAAARGH OW! Oh, bugger! That's the second tie in less than a week, you stupid bint! Yes, it DID fucking hurt, thank you very much! I'm warning you, you trollop, when I... no, no, no, make him stop, make him stop, oh jeezuzsufferingfeck AAAAAAAAAARGH!"

A noise suspiciously like a very large animal growling and snarling angrily sounded in the backgroud.

"Bobby!" Crowley squeaked in terror, "Bobby, love, summon me! By Dean's car and Sam's hair, I'm begging you, mate, I'm begging you!"

"Okay," agreed Bobby, "But you got some explainin' to do when you get here, and I reserve the right to carry out replicate experiments on you until I have a statistically significant result."

"Please hurry!" Crowley's voice pleaded, "He looks so... hungry..." _*click*_

"What the hell was that all about?" asked Sam, bewildered.

"Guess there's only one way to find out," shrugged Bobby.

The ritual was reasonably straightforward: draw a large Devil's Trap under the rug, then make with the herbs and candles and blood to summon the King of Hell himself. They were waiting, with demon-killing knives, and experimental anti-demon ammunition.

"All right, asshole," Bobby growled as the dishevelled demon manifested before them, "Say what you gotta say, and be quick abou-OOF!"

Before any of them could move, Crowley threw himself at Bobby, and grabbed him in a hug.

"My hero," he sobbed.

* * *

><p><strong>Sam and Dean (pulling covers over head):<strong> Bobbyyyyyyyyyyy!

**Bobby (running into room):** What? What? What is it, boys?

**Sam:** There's a fanfic writer under my bed! *bottom lip trembles*

**Dean:** And a plot bunny under miiiiiiine! *eyes shine with unshed tears*

**Bobby (soothingly):** Well, we know how to get rid of them, don't we?

**Sam and Dean:** We do?

**Bobby (smiling in fatherly fashion):** All you gotta do is ignore 'em.

**Sam:** Really?

**Bobby:** Yup. If they don't get reviews, the plot bunnies shrivel up and die, and the fanfic writers become despondent and cry until they can't even see their keyboards.

**Dean:** Maybe we can sing the song!

**Sam:** Yeah, let's sing the song!

*They sing the song*

_Fanfic writer 'neath the bed,_  
><em>Go and get a life instead.<em>  
><em>No-one wants to read your stuff,<em>  
><em>Even if we're in the buff,<em>

_Fanfic readers, don't review,_  
><em>So there are no chapters new,<em>  
><em>If there are, we don't care,<em>  
><em>We'll take off our underwear...<em>

**Bobby:** I think you need to work on your song...


	8. Chapter 7

**Lampito: **Go on.

**Sam****(pouting): **Do we have to?

**Lampito: **Yes.

**Dean****(sulking): **Don't wanna.

**Sam:** These shorts chafe a bit.

**Dean:** I don't like the sparkles.

**Lampito:** Shut up before I change my mind and we go for mankinis. Now, get out there and be convincing!

*Winchesters hesitantly take centre stage, shake pom-poms and sing*

_Thank you first to Georgia, for leaving a review,_  
><em>Thank you next to Kepouros, because she left one too,<em>  
><em>Thank you to our PaulaCat, encouragement she sent,<em>  
><em>And Sam says you can warm his feet, though you're completely bent.<em>

"They jump up and down, shake their pom-poms again, and scuttle off stage.*

**Sam:** That was humiliating.

**Dean:** That was demeaning.

**Sam:** I think these shorts have given me an embarrassing case of sequins...

**Dean:** Please tell me we don't have to do that ever again.

**Lampito: **I'm an addict, and I'll give them what they want. Can either of you do the splits?

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 7<strong>

"Get off me, ya idjit!" Bobby yapped angrily, shoving Crowley away from him and stepping back out of the Devil's Trap.

"Oh, Bobby," Crowley sniffled, picking miserably at the remnants of his shredded suit, "You are a saint, mate, a bloody saint, the Good Samaritan had nothing on you." The self-made King of Hell drooped to the floor.

"God's tits, what happened to you?" Bobby asked, intrigued in spite of himself.

"It was awful, just awful!" moaned Crowley. "The unspeakable horror! The pitiless torture! The ignorance about declensions! The appalling pronunciation!"

"If you don't start talkin' sense, I'm gonna start experimentin'," Bobby informed him, hefting the shotgun. "This batch has third class relics in the mix..."

"Give me a moment," begged Crowley, "I'm traumatised, man, traumatised, I tell you!"

"So, now we got him, what do we do with him?" asked Sam.

"I'm in favour of experimenting," Dean said chirpily, "You liked science at school, didn't you Sammy? Think about it as a science project..."

"You could try forcing some alcoholic beverage into me, for medicinal purposes," suggested Crowley hopefully, "To settle my nerves, and make me more talkative?"

"Or, I could try shooting you with Mark IV experimental anti-demon rounds," countered Bobby, although it did intrigue him that Crowley seemed to be eager to ingest what he referred to as 'that substandard muck' that Bobby habitually drank.

Crowley made a face like a kicked basset hound.

"Oh, puh-lease, girlfriend," sneered Dean, "We gotta live with Sasquatch quality emotional blackmail. You're as convincing as Eddie Murphy playing a Klansman."

Crowley examined his badly damaged tie, and whined. The sheer unhappiness of the sound made Jimi start whining in sympathy.

"Looks like we aint getting any sense out of him until he's had a drink," humphed Bobby, nodding to Sam to fetch a bottle. "A bit like someone else I could mention," he added, with an acerbic glare at Dean.

Two gulped glasses of whiskey later, Crowley sat nursing a third.

"All right, you, spill," Bobby instructed, "Or embrace your new life as a lab rat in occult ballistics research..."

"It's sort of a long story," Crowley replied, sadly examining his shoes. The teeth marks would never come out.

"Well, for starters, where were you, when we called?" Sam demanded.

Crowley turned an utterly miserable expression on them. "Having my heart broken," he muttered despondently.

**...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... **

All right, so maybe he'd been in a bit of a hurry. As soon has he'd identified his candidate and pinpointed her location, he'd whistled up another Hellhound – a female this time, since the last one was still wisely making himself scarce after crapping on the expensive rug – and headed Topside to find her.

He was sure he'd found out all he needed to know. Ronnie was a ruthless, vicious, brutal, selfish, boozing, immoral bully with a taste for sexual assault and bloody murder. When he arrived in her town, he wondered if it would be too forward to bring flowers, or perhaps pop over to Switzerland to pick up some expensive chocolates. Or would gourmet dog treats be better received?

He was a little nonplussed when the door was opened by a man, who smiled and cordially invited him in. Yes, Ronnie was home, she was in the study, he'd just go get her, in the mean time, would he like a drink?

He happily accepted a glass of Highland Park single malt, very good stuff, and didn't realise until it was too late that it had been spiked with holy water...

Shortly afterwards, he found himself stuck in a Devil's Trap, with the lady herself eyeing him in a fashion that would've set his heart aflutter if he had one. He was more disappointed than he liked to admit later when he discovered that the guy who'd nabbed him was her pair-bond.

"So, then," the scarred face had formed an expression that put him in mind of a rabid dog watching a wounded rabbit – _Oh, __Ronnie, __you __flirt_, he thought to himself – "What's a fucking demonic Pommy bastard doing looking for me?"

"We haven't been formally introduced, Ms Shepherd," he began, "May I call you Ronnie? Ronnie, I am Crowley. I am, in fact... King of Hell."

She cocked an eyebrow – _Oh,__you __shameless __tease, __madam,_ he mused – while her companion's eyes widened in amazement.

"Funny," she went on, "I would've sworn that was Lucifer. I really don't have any desire to talk with one of his bumboys."

Her companion was less restrained. "No way!" he blurted, smiling eagerly.

"Yes, way," confirmed Crowley, smiling broadly. "Now that Lucifer is... indefinitely indisposed, somebody has to take over. That would be me."

Ronnie smiled back at him, even if the dog accompanying her didn't. Her sidekick capered like a three year old who'd found a really interestingly slimy slug, and brought it in to show his mother.

"This is amazing!" he enthused, "Just amazing! The first demon I ever catch, all by myself, and it's the King of Hell! I smelled the sulphur, and he made my hackles go up, so I spiked his drink, just like you said..."

Ronnie smiled at him indulgently. "Yes, dear, you've done very well," she patted him on the arm.

Crowley gazed at the smiling man in disbelief. "You're a werewolf too?" he asked.

And it had all gone downhill from there...

"So, now you've caught a demon, what do you do?" Ronnie asked, like a teacher prompting a pre-schooler.

"Exorcise it," Andrew said promptly, "Or stab it with a demon-killing knife, if you have one."

"Right," Ronnie nodded. "So, have at it."

Both Andrew and Crowley looked panicked.

"Now hold your horses," Crowley said with more good humour than he actually felt, "I've only come to visit because I want to talk to you. In fact, I want to offer you something..."

"Didn't I just tell you that I don't want to talk to one of Lucifer's bumboys?" she snapped, turning back to the worried looking man. "Go on," she encouraged, "Like I taught you."

"Um," he began hesitantly, "I don't think I've got it memorised perfectly yet..."

"Well, do your best, and use your prompt card when you have to," she reassured him, handing him a dog-eared file card.

"Okay." Andrew took a deep breath, let it out, and looked shyly at Crowley. "Ahem. Right then. Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus..."

"Ow!" Crowley winced at the sting of the ancient rite, "Now, wait just a minute, seriously, all I wanted to do was talk, really..."

"Omnis satanica potestas, omnis incursium..." Andrew concentrated hard.

"Ow! What?" Crowley stared at him.

"Omnis satanica potestas, omnis incursium," repeated Andrew, "Are you deaf as well as demonic?"

"Well, you've got a bit wrong, chum," Crowley pointed out, "It's not 'incursium'."

"Oh, yeah!" Andrew smiled brightly. ""Omnis satanica potestas, omnis incursi**o** , thank you, omnis incursio infernalis adversairio, omnis legio, omnis congregatio..."

"Adversari-I," corrected Crowley, flinching at Andrew's pronunciation as much as the pain of the exorcism, "It's the plural, so it's a double-i on the end, and they're both pronounced. 'EE-EYE', like that."

"Adversairi-eye," repeated Andrew obediently.

"No, listen, adver-SAR-rii. Sar. Sar. That syllable rhymes with 'far'. You said 'sair', rhyming with 'fair'. It's a long 'ah' sound."

"Adversairi-eye," Andrew tried again.

"How are you getting on?" asked Ronnie, coming back into the room.

"He's useless," huffed Crowley. "Damned Yankee accent, mother tongue interference."

"I'm trying, "Andrew protested angrily.

"Maybe you could just stop, and listen to me," suggested Crowley, "Because I just wanted to talk tooooOOOOOO AAAAARGH!" He peered down at his chest. An ornate knife was buried to the hilt in it. It was quite painful. "Ow!" he yelped, slapping at the offending cutlery, "Ow! What the hell is that?"

Ronnie pulled the knife out, and studied it thoughtfully. "I've been working on a demon-killing knife," she explained, "But it's not quite right yet. I thought I'd see how much progress I've made..."

"Oh, look, right through my tie!" complained Crowley.

"AdverSAAAARi-eye," went Andrew, frowning in concentration, "AdverSAAAARi-eye, omnis incursio infernalis adverSAAAARi-eye, omnis legio, omnis congregatio..."

"Aaaaaaargh!" Crowley grabbed his head. "Aaaaaaaargh!"

"You keep practising," Ronnie instructed, "I have to try something different with this knife..."

And so had began a vicious circle, in which Andrew practised his exorcism recital, eventually sending Crowley back to Hell, whereupon the King Of Hell would return to try to talk some sense into Ronnie, or at least retrieve his meatsuit, then she'd stab him again, ask some questions about how much it hurt, and finally leave her pair-bond to try his Latin once more.

It was exquisitely painful. Crowley tried to tutor Andrew in the basics, just to try to shorten the ordeal a bit...

After the third trip back Downstairs, he remembered his phone, and started trying to call Bobby in between bouts of stabbing and bad Latin. Then, just when he thought it couldn't get any worse, it did.

In a thoroughly bad temper by then, he insulted Ronnie. He watched in horror as Andrew the budding scholar of Cicero's tongue had undergone a shapeshift, and become a slavering, seven-foot monster itching to tear him apart. There wasn't much he could do, stuck in the Devil's Trap, except to dodge the massive clawed hands as best he could. His clothes took the brunt of the damage, although his meatsuit did not escape unscathed.

Ronnie was very angry at Crowley when she found him bleeding on her rug, so she stabbed him again. She was also very angry at Andrew when it became apparent that, once again, he had become stuck, and could not shift back to human, so she slapped him upside the ear.

Demon King and werewolf had glared at each other, their expressions clearly saying _This __is __all __YOUR __fault, __you __idiot!_

They had exchanged a few more snarling blows, with the dog barking happy encouragement at both participants while darting in to chew on Crowley's shoes, then Bobby's summoning had kicked in, and a disembowelling strike from massive claws swished through empty air...

**...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... **

"... So here I am, with my heart broken, and my suit ruined," finished Crowley miserably. "You are not making me feel any better," he added reproachfully, watching the Winchesters roll on the floor and howl with laughter.

"What possessed you, if you'll excuse the expression, to go visit the World's Crankiest Werewolf?" asked Bobby, between his own bouts of chortling. "She's a Hunter, ya idjit! She was always going to try to kill you, or at least exorcise you!"

"I wanted her help," Crowley replied, "Like I came to ask for your help, only you shot at me, and wouldn't even hear me out. AND I was assaulted by various non-human occupants of the premises!" he accused. "That tie was very expensive! And I had all my favourite apps loaded on that phone..."

"My heard bleeds," grumbled Bobby, "You don't happen to have the charger for it with you, do ya? Only Zan ran the battery out, and he does love him some Angry Birds."

"Bollocks to your Angry Birds!" Crowley burst out, one eye starting to twitch, "I don't give a toss about Angry Birds! Angry Birds do not register at all on my list of Things To Care About! See these fingers?" He held up a clenched fist. "That's how many flying fucks I give about your Angry Bleeding Birds! I spit on your Angry Birds, and curse the pigs they are launched at!"

"All right, all right, unbunch your panties, Your Majesty," drawled Bobby, not bothering to fight the grin that formed on his face. "Why don't you tell me what you need help with?"

"I hope that all your Angry Birds explode prematurely, and your catapult suffers prolapse of the elastic, and your buildings stay upright, and your... er, yes, right, thank you," Crowley subsided when he heard Bobby's words. "You'll hear me out?" he checked cautiously.

"Sure," Bobby gestured expansively, "I like a laugh at your expense as much as those two chuckleheads." He indicated the Winchesters, who were still sniggering unkindly at Crowley's recent Close Encounter Of The Lupine Kind.

"Will you listen, without shooting me?" pressed Crowley.

"No promises," Bobby told him gruffly.

Crowley sighed. "All right," he said glumly, "I have a problem with the Hellhounds. They're behaving less like Hellhounds and more like, well, just dogs. One of them crapped in my office. Twice. Then ran away before I could get my hands on a rolled-up newspaper. Speaking of which," he looked around, listening, "I had one with me when I arrived Topside. She seems to have wandered off too..."

**...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... **

The happy yapping in the yard caught Ronnie's attention. Joni was engaged in a game of chase with another dog, a Rottweiler bitch that she didn't recognise. A stray, presumably, since she was very friendly, and had nice manners.

They put up FOUND DOG posters, and took a photo to the local animal shelter and police station, but nobody claimed her. Within a few days, she had been adopted by a workmate of Andrew's, a mechanic who'd recently lost his beloved dog to old age. He named her Zeppelin, and she became his devoted canine companion. She was happiest just sitting on a mat, in the corner of the workshop, keeping an eye on her doting Alpha, and sometimes lounging in the sun outside in the afternoon, using her big brown eyes to try to wheedle candy or ice cream from passing school children. She was a very placid, laid back dog.

Well, except for the time a fuel tanker had crashed at the end of the street; Zep shot out of the workshop, and went through the broken windscreen to pull the driver out of the wreck – witnesses swore she dragged him through the fireball that engulfed the rig before the emergency services arrived.

Enquiries were pressed as to whether she was a service dog who'd somehow gotten lost, but she wasn't micro-chipped. The local police chief, who'd had dogs himself, just put it down to the working instinct of the breed. There was some discussion about handing Zep over to train as a patrol dog, but she was devoted to her chosen human. A large print of her with her animal bravery medal adorned the workshop wall long after she had left her matter and gone to Wait for her Alpha.

* * *

><p><strong>Sam:<strong> Oh, dear God, I think there might be a couple more reviews...

**Lampito:** How do you feel about dressing up as sexy firefighters? Fondlable firefighters?

**Dean:** AAAAAAAAARGH!


	9. The Dance Of Thanks

**THE DANCE OF THANKS**

_**Performed by D. and S. Winchester. Lyrics and choreography by Lampito.**_

* * *

><p><strong>Lampito: <strong>Come on out, you two! You audience awaits!

**Dean**** (edging ****behind ****Sam):** Your suppliers, you mean.

**Lampito**** (smiling ****smugly):** I'm an addict. It's not my fault, I have a disease.

**Sam**** (edging ****behind ****Dean):** Have you considered Reviewees Anonymous?

**Lampito:**Nope. Now, put your hat on.

**Sam (****reluctantly ****donning ****red ****fireman****'****s ****hat):** It squashes my hair.

**Dean:** Why are there suspenders with these shorts?

**Sam:** And wouldn't firemen be wearing protective gear? Or shirts of any sort, at the very least?

**Lampito:** You think too much, Stretch. Now, hold up your axes, and big smiles!

*Winchesters shuffle onto centre stage, and begin their song*

_Fanficnet was playing up and wouldn't show reviews,_  
><em>And poor depressed Lampito had the 'No-one's Reading' Blues,<em>  
><em>But now the sys ops fixed the bug, so in the comments pour,<em>  
><em>She sent us out to humour you so you will send some more,<em>

_Thank you first to Bartlebead, a Denizen of note,_  
><em>And thanks to Paralesky too, for all the things she wrote,<em>  
><em>Then thank you Leahelisabeth, who, though her schoolwork shocks,<em>  
><em>Still finds the time to campaign hard for Sam-stuck-in-a-box...<em>

**Lampito ****(whispering ****furiously ****from ****stage ****left):** More bumping and grinding, fellas!

*Winchesters continue*

_Thank you to Katiki, who's a fan of Crowley's Hell,_  
><em>Thank you starglow, Rockwat, and to Emily as well,<em>  
><em>Thank you, too, to SeaGlassGreen, who minds the custard tub,<em>  
><em>And thank you too to knivespast of the Harry Potter club,<em>

_Thank you lots to scootersmom, Anonymouse and Janie,_  
><em>Thank you Jesse H, and Ciya, who's a touch insaney,<em>  
><em>Thanks of course to aeicha, although she's Crowley's fan,<em>  
><em>To Dani and to E-mouse Girl, thanks – come back if you can...<em>

**Lampito:** Come on, come on, time for the big finish - those shorts aren't going to remove themselves, what do you think the Velcro down the sides is for?...

*Winchesters squirm, and edge more closely together*

_Thank you all reviewers, who drop in and leave a note,_  
><em>To let that bitch Lampito know you like the stuff she wrote,<em>  
><em>For Denizens, or Droppers In, we'll gyrate, and we'll wiggle,<em>  
><em>We'll do the Dance of Thanks so all you perverts get a giggle...<em>

*With Lampito threatening to call in Denizens' Dean Disciplining and Sam Spanking Services if they are not adequately entertaining, the Winchesters reluctantly gyrate and wiggle, throw their hats into the audience, pull off their shorts, then flee in their sparkly briefs as the Denizens storm the stage brandishing bottles of chocolate sauce and flavoured massage oil.*

**Bobby ****(scratching ****head):** God's tits, but them wimmen frighten me.

**Lampito:** I just give them what they want. It's probably because of quantum.

**Bobby:** I might get on with some research, see what I can find about the origins of Hellhounds.

**Lampito:** Your intellectual prowess never fails to impress.

**Bobby**: I gotta take a look at the sink in the kitchen first, though, I think it might be blocked. Could need some Drano.

**Lampito:** You are multi-skilled individual, Mr Singer.

**Bobby:** That reminds me, I gotta give the dog her worming tablet.

**Lampito:** Enough of this romance! Off with your overalls!

*curtain down*


	10. Chapter 8

**Lampito:** Go on, we missed a couple.

**Sam and Dean:** *seditious muttering*

**Lampito:** I'll call DDD&SSS *waggles phone*

*Sam and Dean grab up pom-poms, and begin cheering routine*

_We're really very sorry that some thank you notes we missed,_  
><em>But some reviews came later, and we hope you're not too pissed,<em>  
><em>Our Kiwi friend who lives Down There, Silvereye-ed Queen,<em>  
><em>Alicia and summerrogue - we don't mean to be mean,<em>

_So thank you to you ladies, too, we hope you understand,_  
><em>That we were getting worried, things were getting out of hand,<em>  
><em>The Denizens are frisky, and they chased us, and they laughed,<em>  
><em>And wearing sparkly briefs means that there is this dreadful draft...<em>

**Denizens:** The trail of sequins leads this way, Oh look there they are, My word they look just scrummy in those little outfits, I wish I was one of those pom-poms, Last one to drag a Winchester into the custard tub is a rotten egg, etc.

**Sam and Dean:** EEEEEEEEP!

*They run for it, trying to keep themselves decent with pom-poms*

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 8<strong>

"Squeaky toys," repeated Bobby doubtfully, after Crowley explained the gist of Asmodean's interminable presentation. "They're bringin' in squeaky toys, treat balls, and mailmen instead of the wicked souls they're supposed to collect?"

"Crapping on the carpet?" Dean sounded equally doubtful.

"Oh, the crap was real, painfully, disgustingly real," sighed Crowley, slumped in despair on the sofa, keeping a wary eye on the two dogs watching him; Jimi and Janis sat, glaring at him, the occasional crackle of red flashing across their eyes. He was yet to see them blink. "That pair of shoes will never perform surgery again. And at least two Hounds have run away. There could be more, but frankly, I didn't think I could bear to sit through any more slides. Not without breaking out in a rash. I certainly wasn't going to wait until he got to graphical representation of Hellhound crap. He would, you know. "Now, in this chart, you'll see all the crap found indoors classified according to size, colour, smell, consistency, tendency to corrode shoe leather, and Carpet Staining Index." He winced. "It's diabolical. If I ever find the vicious demon who devised Power-bloody-Point, I'll have its hide..."

"Could this be the cause of the increase in restless spirits?" asked Sam, pecking at his laptop. He could just manage to wedge a pencil under each bandaged thumb, and typed away in a style that put Dean in mind of a demented woodpecker. "I've been having a look at the lists those other Hunters sent you, Bobby," Sam went on, "The vast majority of the salt and burns over the past several weeks have been people who didn't really have any unfinished business here on Earth, but they were probably destined for Hell."

"You see? My problem is your problem!" declared Crowley, smiling, "We fix my problem, we fix your problem!"

"Whaddya mean 'we', white man?" glowered Dean, cleaning a thumbnail carefully with _that_ knife. "We just keep salting and burning 'em, same as we've always done. You get your own pooches under control, asshole. Scoop your own dogs' poop."

"No, seriously, my problem _is_ your problem," Crowley repeated. "It will only get worse as time goes on. The Hellhounds are running away, and the ones left are... forgetting their training!"

"So, we'll salt and burn harder," sneered Dean.

"No, no, no, you don't understand!" insisted Crowley, "Hell doesn't just receive souls, Hell runs on souls! Souls can provide power. Think of your feathered friend's experience, for example," he sniped, thoroughly piqued by the day's events so far.

"Okay," announced Dean calmly, hefting_that_knife, "I'm going to pull out his intestines through his navel now, you got a drop sheet I can use, Bobby?"

"Okay, okay, low blow, poor choice of words!" yelped Crowley, trying to watch the knife and the male dog, who had begun to growl most worryingly at the tone of his Alpha's voice, "Think of souls as... a form of fuel. The ultimate renewable resource. I called it the Red Revolution, when I took over, and overhauled the system. Zero emissions, and extremely efficient, compared to brimstone."

"So, the souls stop arriving, Hell runs out of juice - somehow, not actually seeing this as a bad thing," Dean smiled.

"Oh, it would be," Crowley assured him glumly, "First of all, I'd be deposed as CEO, and torn into pieces small enough to make atoms look like Dolly Parton's assets..."

"Ah, so the silver lining has a silver lining," observed Bobby.

"No, no, NO!" Crowley snapped, "For you miserable mortal ugly bags of mostly water, the silver lining has a cloud the size of the Horsehead Nebula!" He sighed. "Look, what Hell needs, what Hell craves, is order. Stability. It's the natural state of things, the system tends towards... business as usual."

"Hell is anti-entropic?" asked Sam.

"If that means, 'Hell works best when it is predictable and consistent, a place for every demon and every demon in its place', then yes," agreed Crowley. "If the supply of souls is interrupted, the system loses power. If that happens, instability follows. And if that happens, well, the Hierarchy of the most senior, important and powerful demons will reduce me to a little yellow streak of sulphur on the floor, and go about attempting to re-establish stability."

"How would they do that?" Bobby wanted to know.

"By slugging it out for the top job," replied Crowley. "It won't be pretty. There will be casualties. A lot. They'll hammer each other until one emerges on top of the heap, and can stand upright long enough to piss on all the rest without being pulled down."

"Sounds good," Dean was positively beaming, "With a bit of luck, they'll all kill each other off, and do our work for us."

Crowley pinched the bridge of his nose. "You really aren't getting this, are you?" he sighed despairingly, waving his glass. "I really need another drink. Top us up, Bobby, love, all this stupidity is making me thirsty..." Bobby glared murderously, but fetched the bottle.

"So, explain why having the most powerful demons in Hell murder each other is a bad thing," prompted Sam, without looking up from the laptop, "Because I'm not seeing the down side either."

Crowley took a swig, grimaced, and made a noise that sounded like _gnarck_. "Oh, bugger me, that's dreadful stuff, Bobby, remind me to pop by with a couple of bottles of something with less kerosene in it... so, the thing is, do you really think that when the Big Boys and Girls – some of whom are Fallen, I might remind you – start pulling each other's pigtails, the damage will be confined to Hell?"

He let the implication sink in before continuing.

"It would be one faction against another, one would-be warlord seeking to eliminate all rivals. To them, there is no such thing as 'collateral damage'. That would imply some degree of regret about anything that gets incidentally destroyed. Including your lovely little planet. I'm just as fond of it, I might tell you, as most of the brain-damaged primates who think they run the place, mucky around the edges though it might be. Your lovely little blue marble would just be so many more grid squares of battleground."

"Balls," muttered Bobby eventually.

"It's bad enough when their ... robust discussions break out into physical reality," Crowley went on. "Shoemaker-Levi? Remember that?"

"What? The comet that collided with Jupiter in 1994?" Sam did look up this time.

"That wasn't just a comet," Crowley intoned ominously, "That was Duke Ganthery reminding his brother who the head of the clan is. Hurricane Katrina?"

"You're not suggesting that a demon destroyed New Orleans?" commented Bobby.

"Not at all, I'm just telling you that the storm system resulted from Duke Belaal getting into a right old barney with his sister's consort – the uppity old fart is completely full of hot air," Crowley clarified. "Let it all out at once, atmospheric wackiness ensues. He's probably contributing to global warming. If you're not convinced, I have two more words for you: 'Twin' and 'Towers'."

Dean stared. "You're fucking shitting me," he breathed.

"I am not shitting you, Winchester," Crowley answered grimly, "On a topic so serious, I do not shit. Unlike a certain Hellhound... those attacks, my lad, were Lady Asmodinia's faction attempting to put an end to her brother's rat pack for good. Oh, you mud monkeys called them 'Al Qaeda' and 'Bush Administration', but they were just the manifestation in this plane of the fundamental cause. Bloody hell, I barely damped that one down before it got really nasty, and they're still at it..." the King of Hell actually shuddered. "The history of this extraordinary little ball of rock is littered with manifestations on this plane from little squabbles like that. The K/T extinction event. The Little Ice Age. 1931 floods in China. Chernobyl. Jonestown. The crossover of HIV into the human population. The invention of the piano accordion. Justin Bieber. Some of them don't care who or what else gets destroyed by their hissy fits. And some of them actively enjoy doing as much damage as they can, as widely as possible." Crowley paused again. "As a character with a similar accent once observed to a man who wore leotards after dark, 'Some men – or demons – just want to see the world burn, master Dean'."

"God's tits," breathed Bobby, sitting down heavily.

"And Mammon's mammaries," echoed Crowley, without a hint of humour. "I mean it. If this problem doesn't get fixed, my painful, protracted and sartorially unfortunate death will be small compensation for seeing your world turned into a little charred ball of ash. Or a giant stadium of seven billion Beliebers. I'm not sure which would be worse."

"The angels..." began Sam.

"Will sit on their downy white arses, and watch," snapped Crowley. "Some of them will bring popcorn, and cheer, possibly even for your side. But they won't interfere. Oh, you might get one or two who would try to help, but it would be the ending of them. They'd be up against Fallen, and heavily outnumbered. Would it make you feel better to know that your feathered friend Castiel would do his very best to protect you for as long as he could? You might take comfort from the fact that he might still be there to cry bitterly over your scorched skeletal remains, in the end, if he hasn't been reduced to a very pretty outline of singed wings on bare rock himself."

"Okay, okay, we get the picture," growled Dean, "Demons brawl, it spills over, we get natural disasters, political chaos, industrial clusterfucks and singing Canadians, game over."

"You got it," confirmed Crowley, taking another drink. "And as soon as we deal with the wayward Hellhounds, we will do something about educating your palate, Bobby, I think you might really enjoy some Speyside single malts..."

"One thing at a time," humphed Bobby. "So. You got a bunch of Hellhounds screwing up, or going AWOL. What's causing it?"

"What do you mean, what's causing it?" asked Crowley, looking perplexed. "I don't know!"

"Bobby's right," Sam chimed in, "If we're going to fix the problem, first we have to find the root cause. What has made the Hellhounds stop behaving like Hellhounds, and start behaving like, well, dogs?"

"Who do I look like here, Cesar Millan? Victoria Stilwell?" Crowley snarked irritably. "That's why I tried to ask Bobby in the first place."

"Or Ronnie," Sam reminded him, "What made you decide to go to see Ronnie?"

Crowley hesitated for just a second.

"I had some... information that suggested she might be able to... control them," he said in a neutral tone.

"What sort of information?" Dean was onto him at once.

"Just... something I found out. In Hell," His Diabolical Majesty replied.

"What, because she's a werewolf?" pressed Sam. "Because she's a Hunter who's a werewolf? Because she's Hunted with dogs? Because she can control the shapeshift? Because she's trained a half-breed? What's the key requirement, here?"

"I think it might be... complicated," Crowley hedged, "Suffice to say, under certain circumstances, Ronnie Shepherd would've been able to help. But I got the definite impression that she wasn't interested in anything except perfecting her demon-killing knife at my expense..."

"What sort of circumstances?" Sam was like a terrier with a rat. Or a lawyer with an evasive witness.

"Look, it's kind of hard to explain..." Crowley grinned desperately.

"Try," Dean instructed.

"Well," Crowley gulped, "Well, when I was trying to figure this out, one of my fiends – he's a real asset, you know, keen, willing to learn, not afraid to make suggestions, capable of showing initiative and working with minimal direction..."

"Try harder," Dean waggled his own knife.

"Yes, well, he made a comment," Crowley went on, "He said it was a shame we couldn't ask Lucifer what He'd do, because He'd been in Hell since, well, since forever, and had seen and done it all, so that got me thinking, maybe, maybe somewhere else – or some_when_ else – the Ruler of Hell actually encountered this exact problem, and came up with a solution..."

"What, like in an alternative reality?" asked Sam. "A parallel universe? A different version of history?"

"Yes! Yes! Exactly!" the demon beamed, "A possible history that didn't make the final cut! Oh, no wonder Azazel picked you, you are the smart one..."

"So, what happened?" demanded Dean, as Crowley flinched in the face of a full contact Sam Winchester Bitchface™, "What did you do in this other history?"

"Um, well, it wasn't actually me who was in charge," Crowley chose his words with the same care demonstrated by a man who has discovered a loaded skunk snoozing in his favourite chair and decided to remove it, "I was more of a 2IC, a trusted lieutenant, an indispensible companion who made sure the Boss's orders were carried out..."

"I think I might test this ammo, after all," mused Bobby, hefting his shotgun.

"Nonononono!" squawked Crowley, "Don't do that! I'm trying to help, I am!"

"No you're not, you're stalling," snapped Sam. "And hedging, and edging, and filibustering, and possibly even farnarkling. So stop doing that, and tell us who was in charge in Hell, and how did they fix the problem with the Hellhounds?"

Crowley considered his next move, and sighed. At least if the Winchesters killed him, it would be reasonably quick. They were angry, but they were not sadistic. And there was no chance whatsoever of any PowerPoint involvement.

"All right, then," he said, turning to face Sam directly. "The solution proposed by the Boy King, Lord Samuel, Ruler of Dis and Lord of the Red Throne, was brilliant and elegant. He set his brother, the most feared and accomplished torturer in all of Hell, to take one of the most viciously wicked souls damned to the Pit, and fashion it into a Hellhound handler, the Dominicana. And frankly, fellas, Ronnie Shepherd looked damned good in black."

* * *

><p>So, we know that neither Dean nor Sam likes to talk about That Sort Of Thing. I suspect Crowley will try to hide behind Bobby, while the Winchesters try to... what?<p>

Reviews are the Squeaky Toys squonked by Adorable Rehomed Hellhounds in the Animal Shelter of Life!


	11. Chapter 9

**Sam:** Tell us how to repel Denizens!

**Dean:** Or we will make you wear this Justin Bieber shirt! *waggles shirt threateningly*

**Lampito:** No! No! Anything but that!

**Sam:** Well?

**Lampito:** You need whipped cream.

**Dean:** ? ? ?

**Lampito:** It's pure calories, containing 100% saturated guilt, unhealthy body image and self-loathing. It works on Denizens the way salt works on ghosts.

**Sam (squirting a ring of whipped cream onto the floor):** Quick, Dean, over here!

*They squirt whipped cream on each other*

**Dean:** Now we'll be safe!

*The Denizens spot them. They aren't*

**Bobby:** You have a mean streak a mile wide, madam.

**Lampito:** Chicks before dicks, dude.

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 9<strong>

When Bobby was a kid, one of the cats that hung around the barns to keep the mice and rats down had a litter of kittens. One of them, a little ginger tom, found its way into the kitchen, and went after the jug of milk that Ma had left on the sideboard to settle.

When she came back in and saw the little creature whiskers deep in the cream rising to the top, she had let out an angry roar, and made a grab for it. The little tom kitten shot straight up the kitchen shelves without seeming to touch any of them, and clung on, wide eyes blinking at the angry biped below.

Right now, thought Bobby, Crowley reminded him of that kitten.

"Bobbeeeeeee!" he shrieked, squashing himself impossibly even further onto the top of the shelves, sending a number of books tumbling, "Bobbeeeee! Call them off!"

Bobby looked at the angry, snarling Winchesters. One was brandishing a demon-killing knife, one was looking around for anything that could be wielded by heavily bandaged hands, and the third was slavering and showing a mouthful of decidedly pointy hellteeth.

"If I were you," he said thoughtfully, "I would try to land closest to the dog. He'll kill you quickest, and, given his breeding, he might even drag you all the way back home. He's also least likely to piss on your cooling carcass."

"You asked!" yelped Crowley, eyeing the angry trio below, "You asked! I didn't want to say, but you asked! He accused me of filibustering!" he pointed sullenly at Sam. "And farnarkling!"

"You were," replied Sam, giving up on the search for a weapon and going to get a chair to stand on instead.

"OF COURSE I was!" wailed Crowley, "Because I knew you'd try to kill me!"

"Do, or do not, there is no try," intoned Dean in his best Yoda voice.

"Do not! Let's go with do not!" Crowley yipped.

Bobby sighed. He really wouldn't mind seeing Crowley torn limb from limb by bared teeth – and that was just what Sam might do, never mind the dog – but that wasn't going to help solve the Hellhound problem. If the King of Hell had access to information that could help, it would be easier to get that info if his head was still more or less attached to the rest of him.

"It was a possible history, boys," he reminded them, "It was an alternative reality. It might have happened, but it didn't."

"That's right!" Crowley nodded vigorously. "That ol' Free Will thing. You made different choices, so it never actually happened. It could've, but it didn't. Because you could've, but you didn't! Evil is thwarted, Good triumphs, Winchesters 1, Apocalypse 0!" He smiled desperately.

The Winchesters subsided somewhat.

"Can I stab him?" asked Dean. "Just a bit?"

"Not with that, son," Bobby told him, a bit regretfully. "Not yet, anyway."

"Maybe just slap him around a bit?" Dean pleaded.

"We need to pick his brains, Dean," Bobby said, "That will be easier if they're still on the inside of his skull."

Sam's puppy-dog expression of utter disappointment would've move a lesser man to tears.

"So, why don't you come on down, Crowley," coaxed Bobby, pouring another drink, getting a sudden memory of how he'd coaxed the ginger kitten down an hour later when Ma was gone by waving a saucer of cream. "Then you can tell us about this alternative, also-ran history that never happened." He waggled the glass enticingly.

Crowley eventually descended from the shelves with an awkward thump, and gratefully took the proffered glass. "Oh, Bobby, chum," he sighed, "What would I do without you, you marvellous individual?"

"Rampage unchecked across this plane and others, no doubt," was the gruff reply. "Now, we need as much information as you can give us about this might-have-been solution. What's a Dominicana?"

"The feminine form of the pseudo-Latin title 'Dominican', I think," Crowley told them. "A sort of infernally appointed Hellhound guardian."

"So, why don't you find one?" Sam asked. "How do you appoint this guardian? What exactly does the job involve?"

"Look, it's... complicated," Crowley repeated. "Maybe I could show you what I saw, then you'll know just as much as me, for yourselves."

Dean blinked. "You... you went and looked at an alternative history?" he asked incredulously.

"Oh, yes," Crowley replied airily, "It's not that difficult if you know how to look. Mostly, nobody's interested in what might have been. It takes a lot of juice, of course, but I'm King of Hell, and abuse of my executive power is practically a job requirement."

"So, how do we do this? Look at an alternative history?" asked Bobby.

Crowley pulled out his phone. "Well," he began, dialling, "If you're agreeable, I can call the IT Help Desk and ask them to patch it through to your TV."

"Hell has an IT Help Desk?" marvelled Sam.

"It was one of the first things I had to set up," Crowley told them, "Ah, hello? It's Crowley here. Who's this? Steve? Steve! Just the man. I need you to talk me through an AV set-up. Mm-hmm. Job number? No, I don't have a bloody job number! I'm the King of Hell, you pillock! Screw your job number! Yeah? Well, prioritise this! Or I'll have that new pancreas back, thank you very much... yes, yes, I'll drop by and initial the job log. Wonderful. What? Port number? No, no, I'm Topside, mate. Yes. Topside. Hang on, I'll look." The demon peered in behind Bobby's television. "Oh, bugger, there's more holes in the back of this thing than you'd find in a whorehouse... a USB? What's a USB? How do I tell if it's male or female? Are you telling me these things _breed_? I don't know. He wants to know if we have a browser we can route this through," he turned to the humans, "Do we have a browser?"

"Yep," replied Sam, waking up the laptop, "Right here."

"Okay, yeah, Steve, we got a browser," Crowley was back on the phone. "What? It's Sam. No, really, he appears to be browsing as we speak... Oh." He turned back to the Hunters. "He wants to know what operating system you're running, and what browser you're using."

"Windows XP and Explorer," Sam told him.

"Right. Steve? He says Windows XP and Explorer. Steve? Steve?" Crowley looked at his phone in confusion. "Steve, are you all right, mate?"

"Is there a problem?" asked Dean.

"All I can hear is sobbing," shrugged Crowley, "Steve, are you there? This is important! Pull yourself together, man! Right. What? _WHAT?_ That's a very personal question, and I feel compelled to remind you that it's the sort of thing that can see you sent back to Equity and Diversity training, and I warn you, they do group hugs... no, you pervert, I will _not_ tell you what my dongle looks like!"

"Oh, for fuck's sake," muttered Sam, snatching the phone awkwardly and sandwiching it between shoulder and ear. "Steve? Hi, it's Sam. Yeah, tell me about it. I feel your pain, man. My brother's even worse. Now, give me an address, and tell me what cables we'll need for this..."

Fifteen minutes later, Sam was just as frustrated as Crowley had been.

"Yes, I know!" he huffed in frustration into Crowley's phone, "And it is! Yes! But we're not getting anything! I'm telling you, we got green lights across the board, but there's no signal! No, I am not working for Crowley!"

Crowley took his phone back.

"Look, I think we've got the set-up right at this end, mate, we can probably take it from here," he said. "Thanks for your help. No, really. You've been very helpful. Yes, I'll do the User Satisfaction Survey as soon as I get back. I promise. I will. I'm the King of Hell, would I tell you fibs? All right. Bye."

"So, now what?" asked Dean, as Crowley started dialling again, "We don't have the damned thing connected, and we don't know how to work Hell's electronics!"

"So I'm calling someone who does," Crowley assured him, tapping away at his phone. "You might want to stand back a bit, he's quite big. Oh, and that expression on his face will mean that he's actually smiling."

**...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... **

When the fiend appeared in Bobby's living room, Dean's first impulse was to shoot it until there were no more bullets available in the entire world, but it gave them an incongruously shy little wave.

"Orgle, mate, that was quick," smiled Crowley, as the giant fiend carefully handed over a suit bag.

"Promptness is important," the fiend Orgle rumbled, "It shows respect and diligence. Verael is very keen on promptness. And neatness. And pushing chairs back in quietly."

"Wonderful, wonderful," Crowley enthused. "Gentlemen, this is Orgle, an up and coming... individual in Hell. Orgle, these are the Winchesters, Sam and Dean, and this is Bobby Singer."

"Hello," the fiend pulled the terrifying expression that meant 'smile' again, and carefully extended the massive taloned paw of one the arms on his right side to shake hands with painstaking care. "It is a pleasure to meet you." He turned anxiously to Crowley. "Did I do that right?" he asked. "I don't come Topside very often," he admitted to the humans.

"Yes, you did very well, mate," Crowley assured him, "Now, I have a little job for you, Orgle. We're going to watch a bit of alternative history here, and we just need a bit of help with setting up the AV bits and pieces..."

Orgle peered at Sam's laptop, at the TV, and smiled.

"Oh, yes," he said happily, "I can set this up. This needs to go in here..."

With surprising delicacy, Orgle had the laptop and TV connected and the picture in wide screen format in a couple of minutes.

"That's amazing," breathed Sam.

"Oh, you know what it's like," sighed Crowley, "All this technology, but if you want to get it to work, you have to have somebody under 300 years old to program it for you."

"Was there anything else, Mr Crowley?" asked Orgle.

"Maybe you could fetch some popcorn, while I get changed," Crowley told him, shrugging out of his ruined jacket. "Oh, and a couple of bottles from my office suite. You know the stuff I want."

Orgle disappeared, then reappeared a minute later with two bottles of Crowley's single malt, and bowls piled with steaming buttered popcorn.

"Ha! Forget it, mister!' snarled Sam. "If you think we're going to eat anything that comes from the Pit..."

"Oooooorm, thish ish sho goooood," Dean hummed happily, cramming another handful into his mouth. "Try id, Shammy, id's really good! And it'sh corn, sho your giant vegedarian ash can ead id! Thish ish wondervul, Orgle!" The fiend beamed. "All I need now iz zome beer."

"So, how do we work this?" asked Bobby with a roll of his eyes.

"Just use the remote," instructed Orgle, before disappearing and reappearing with a six pack. "I'm sorry about the beer," he told Dean regretfully, "I'll remember next time. Popcorn, and beer."

"Orgle, dude, you rock," Dean opened a beer, took another handful of popcorn, and sat back. "So, if we're gonna do this, let's do it."

Bobby hit 'play'...

_The good thing about the new Lord of Hell – apart from the fact that he imposed order, efficient function, and the sort of stability that let the Hierarchy get on with their endless plotting and scheming and machinations against each other – was that he was a lot less volatile than Lucifer had been. Why, when Archduke Belaal had ranted angrily about how he was not going to defer to some child who'd gotten ideas above his station, he'd listened politely and attentively for fully five minutes before he'd smilingly gestured and the angry old demon had exploded. In fairness, he hardly ever burned out anyone, unless they'd really really REALLY annoyed him. The point was, he did it POLITELY, and good manners carried a lot of weight with the Hierarchy..._

**...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... **

The Winchesters and Bobby sat watching with a combination of reluctance, trepidation, horror, and a teensy bit of fascination. After all, who wouldn't be curious as to how it would've turned out if you'd ended up ruling the world? Or the underworld, at least...

" 'The Unattractive Office', Sam?" scoffed Dean. "You named the nerve centre of your diabolical realm 'The Unattractive Office'?"

"Well, it is!" Sam commented. "Look at it! Reds and blacks, it's like a '70s bad acid trip! What's that? Is that... a bouncy castle?"

"Hey, don't diss bouncy castles!" demanded Dean. "You can have fun on a bouncy castle! Once, I was a fair with this girl, in Iowa, I think it was, and..."

"Hmmmm, Carmen Miranda you aint, boy," observed Bobby, as demonic!Dean played out The Maraca Incident in wide screen format, and Crowley winced and gulped his drink.

"Has anyone ever told you that you're cute when you're angry?" Dean grinned at his brother, as the Boy King vetoed hair metal in The Unattractive Office.

"Your manners certainly aren't that different," Sam sniped. "Oh, dude, did you just own up to propositioning the Senior Satanic Librarian? You have no shame!"

"Some things never change, then," nodded Bobby.

"And... a zombie demon army?" Sam sounded disbelieving. "You wanted to create a zombie demon army?"

"Shut up, Tweedledum and Tweedledumber," hissed Crowley, "We're getting to the important part!" Dean threw a handful of popcorn at him.

They listened carefully to Dame Ghazoria's explanation of the Dominican's title, then watched as the new incumbent – the Dominicana – was presented to the Hierarchy.

"She is kinda hot in black," admitted Dean. Sam shushed at him.

All three humans shivered when she loosed her wings, and howled with joy to call her Pack.

They watched as the Hellhounds of the Pit assembled, circling, watching, uncertain as to what was happening. The largest, an enormous monster, offered a savage and snarling reaction to her assertion of dominance.

_...The new Hellhound wrangler, the Dominicana, called out and faced down the largest and most savage of them, the Alpha male, leader in the absence of other guidance. She stared him down, spoke to him in a language he understood, until he submitted, sitting down with his ears drooping, and tentatively offered a paw the size of a truck's hubcap._

_The Dominicana reached up, put her arms around his stinking neck, and hugged him._

_"Good boy," she crooned. The Hellhound's tail began to wag. "This is Belisarius," she told the Lord of Hell, "And he will be Second of my pack."_

"So, there you have it," said Crowley, hitting 'pause' as the assembled Hierarchy smiled at the tableau before them, "She won over the biggest, ugliest and nastiest of them all, and from there, brought them into line."

"Does that mean, we have to arrange something similar?" wondered Sam. "Is the pack's dominant Hound a factor here?"

"And if so, how do we find, and call, Belisarius?" added Bobby. He caught sight of Dean, who was staring at the screen, not in horror, but with a gentle smile on his face. "Dean?" he asked carefully, "Are you all right, son?"

Dean turned that smile on the other watchers. "I don't know how to call him," he said, looking back at the paused picture, "But I do know that in this reality, he won't answer. Because in our history, his name wasn't Belisarius. It was Jimi. Jimi senior."

* * *

><p>Reviews are the Awesome Doggy Cuddles on the Sofa Of Life! Or, if you prefer, the Quaking Winchesters in the Circle Of Whipped Cream Of Life. Take your pick.<p> 


	12. Chapter 10

_The story of Jimi Senior was told in 'Can We Keep Him?', the one-off story that transmogrified into the Jimiverse._

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 10<strong>

Crowley gave Dean a speculative look. "You recognise that Hellhound?" he asked curiously. "Alistair let you keep one as a pet? Well, stuff me. I always had him pegged as a cat person..."

"Nope," Dean continued to smile, just a little smugly, "I summoned him."

Crowley snorted in disbelief. "Don't be ridiculous," he waved a hand dismissively, "Humans can't summon Hellhounds. Most demons can't even control one."

"Well, I did it," Dean continued to emit smugness in the megawatt range.

"You're not kidding, are you?" realised Crowley. "You really did. You summoned a Hellhound. You summoned _that_ Hellhound. And you didn't think to mention this before?" He glared at Dean. "Why didn't you tell me you'd summoned a bloody Hellhound?"

"Because you didn't ask, asshole," Bobby grinned, "And the damned thing followed him here. Big as a car, ugly as sin, smelling worse than a wendigo's month-old jock strap filled with rotting sardines, and with a definite taste for bacon."

"Well, give him back!" snapped Crowley, glaring at Dean. "You rude bastard! You, you, you _dognapped_ my lead Hellhound! Give him back! You summon him up, and give him back this instant!"

"I can't," Dean told him with some satisfaction. "He died saving my ass from an asshole demon wearing an eight-year-old girl, and he was totally awesome. Just ask Rumsfeld," he added with a leer.

"Rumsfeld?" Crowley looked confused, then consulted his phone. "I don't understand," he went on, "He's not dead yet, and we're not due to take delivery of him any time in the next five years. The plans for the boardwatering facility haven't even been signed off by the architects yet..."

"No, he means my dog, Rumsfeld," grinned Bobby, "The old girl outside who lets me know when assholes like you gets too close. She had Jimi Senior's puppies. Jimi Junior," he indicated the dog that was scooting a popcorn bowl across the floor, snuffling up the leftovers, "And missy here," he waved at Janis, who was enjoying a game of tug-of-war with Orgle using the remains of Crowley's last tie, "And Ronnie's dog, Joni, who decided to snack on your shoes. Where do you think half-Hellhounds come from? You think I just found 'em under a particularly satanic-looking cabbage? They were delivered by a stork with bat wings?" He paused. "What the hell is boardwatering?"

"Oh, it's like waterboarding, only the other way around," Crowley answered distractedly, "Something Kyoo in R&D is working up. Along with the quail costume for Cheney..."

Sam pecked at the laptop with his pencils, then turned it around, grinning. The screen showed a picture of Jimi Senior and Dean, both with beautiful smiles. Jimi wore his Open Dog winner's sash, and crackles of red danced in his eyes as he gazed adoringly up at his Alpha. "This was Jimi Senior," Sam smiled, "A.K.A. Winchester Ladies' Man. Dean's right. He was awesome. A group of demons was trying to break into Heaven by killing off dogs, and Jimi and a bunch of his packmates dragged them right back to Hell."

Crowley gaped at the two dogs in the living room, and the picture on the screen. "Are you telling me," he breathed, "Are you telling me that somehow, you summoned a Hellhound – you summoned THAT Hellhound – and he took a physical form, and... mated Bobby's lady dog?"

"Dated, mated, sated and impregnated," Dean grinned, looking fondly at Jimi Junior, who was now wearing the bowl on his head and licking his chops for the last crumbs of salt, "With the magnificent results you see before you." Jimi whuffed happily at the happy tone in his Alpha's voice, and walked into the side of the sofa.

"But... he's not there," Crowley went on, confused, "If he died, he should've gone back Downstairs. Fido was big, but he wasn't in this fella's class." He waved at the picture paused on the television. "So, what the hell have you done with my dog?" he demanded. "You call him back and hand him over, right now!"

"I didn't do anything!" Dean snapped back, "And even if I could call him back, I wouldn't!"

"Jimi is Waiting," Sam explained. "All dogs go to Heaven, right? Especially good dogs. Jimi Senior turned out to be a very good dog."

Crowley's jaw dropped. "Are you sure?" he asked, "Are you absolutely sure that he went... you know... Upstairs?"

"Totally," Dean beamed proudly. "We have first hand confirmation that he is in the care of the Guardian of Companions. Driving her nuts," Dean Winchester practically giggled, "He dug a hole in the Firmament, and set fire to one of the Pearly Gates when he peed on the post..."

"Last time Cas visited, he said that Jimi has been chasing herald angels," Sam added. "They've all started carrying squeaky toys and liver treats to distract him."

Crowley was horrified. "You... you abducted my Alpha Hellhound, gave him a physical form, let him breed, and then... sent him to HEAVEN?" He was a picture of disbelieving outrage.

"He sent himself to Heaven," Dean corrected, "Because he was a good Hunter, and a good dog."

"You bloody thieving bastard!" ranted Crowley, "You thieving, headhunting bastard! I should sue you!"

"According to what law?" demanded Bobby.

"It doesn't matter," Crowley went on, "I have enough lawyers in Hell that they could think of something! If I give an infinite number of lawyers an infinite number of clerks and an infinite supply of expensive booze and cheap cocaine, they'll find something to hit you with..."

"Come at me, bro," Sam's smile had a predatory cast to it that eerily echoed the version of him that they'd just watched on the TV.

"I don't believe this," muttered Crowley, "I don't be-fucking-lieve it. My Dominicana is damaged beyond salvage by a crippling sense of propriety and moral duty, plus she has the bad manners to be still alive, my lead dog is chasing Heaven's mailmen, when it isn't digging up the Burning Bush, and at least two of its puppies enjoy wreaking sartorial havoc upon my person! AAAAARGH! Some days," he humphed bad-temperedly, "Some days, I get out of bed, and think to myself, really, I don't know why the snake even bothered to climb the damned tree..."

"Well, a canine pack finds a leader," Bobby reasoned. "If the Alpha is removed somehow, becomes old, or is injured, or dies, the next one in the pecking order asserts dominance, and takes over. That's how it works. Does it work like that for Hellhounds?"

"I don't know!" Crowley cried, "The whole problem is, I don't know! They were just always _there_! They weren't something I needed to worry about, unless I needed a demon dismembered in an amusing and public fashion. I didn't know that _you_ were going to _steal_ the best one," he glared accusingly at Dean again. Dean flipped him off.

"Well, I got nothin'," Bobby told him shortly. "When Dean's deal was comin' due, Sam and I dug out everything on Hellhounds we could find, and there wasn't anything about how they work, or why they work, or... how Hellhounds learn to be Hellhounds."

"We don't even know whether that's relevant," Sam interjected. "We don't know where Hellhounds come from. Do they breed? When they came – or come – into being, do they know their job instinctively? Do they have to be trained? Does there have to be a Dominican at any one time? We just don't know."

"And I have no idea where we could find out," Bobby finished. "Unless you got some training manuals Downstairs. Some helpful shows on Hell-TV, perhaps? 'It's Me Or The Infernal Monster'? 'Hellhound Shouter'?"

"You could look in the Archives," suggested Orgle, still rassling with Janis over the shredded corpse of Crowley's tie, "There might be something there."

Crowley scowled. "Oh, no," he said firmly, "Oh, no, I am not ever going in there, alone, not even in company, without a bodyguard and a psychiatrist and a climbing harness and a life jacket and a parachute and a tailor trained in survival techniques and a fat sweaty man in a black shirt with a pony tail and a badge reading 'SECURITY' and a chip on his shoulder because he tried and failed three times to join the Police and a string of porters to carry the alcohol and an escape route clearly marked with little lines of lights on the floor..."

"So you don't like libraries, then," Sam observed. "You and Dean actually have something in common."

"You don't understand, Sam," Crowley practically whispered, "This is the library... from Hell. It's the library _of_ Hell. It's all about... perceptions. Whatever would be your own personal idea of Hell in a library, that's what you experience." He shuddered.

"So, in Hell, Sam would sit at a table and bitch at me to find another reference," Dean smirked at the idea. "I already experience that Hell on Earth every time we take a new job..."

"It wouldn't be like that!" snapped Crowley. "It isn't funny! It's... Hell."

"If you want to save this little blue marble, and your own ass, Your Majesty, you're going to have to grow a pair, and go look," Bobby said firmly.

"I don't even know what I'd be looking for!" Crowley practically wailed. "Do I strike you as the intellectual type who knows his way around a library? Did I sit around in the pub after work, and debate the political ramifications of the Moscow Uprising, or the social legacy of the suppression of the Carthaginian Heresy, or the morality of the East India Company's virtual annexation of India, or the likely impact of the industrial printing press on contemporary authority, ooooh, it's the latest thing, the authorities disapprove, all the kids will want one, then they'll bring out another version and you'll have to upgrade and none of the apps will be compatible..."

"Crowley, you're gibbering," Bobby told him.

"...And all our children will stay up all night fiddling with their printing presses and it will rot their minds and nobody will know how to write anymore? I was a tailor, mate! During daylight hours I sewed, then after dark, I screwed around! When I was born, men were extraordinarily lucky to live beyond forty – I didn't have time to muck about in bleeding libraries!" Crowley finally finished.

"Well, if you don't get back down there and find something that can help, you aren't going to make it to 400," Sam pointed out.

"You'd have to come with me," Crowley stated. "You could all come with me. We could cover more ground that way. Oh, come on," he wheedled, as the humans gaped at him in horror, "It would be quicker. Bobby, love, you're smart, and Sam, you're smart, and Dean, you could, I don't know, hold the door open, or eat some filing cards..."

"Jesus H. K-reist," breathed Bobby, "Do you really think that any of us would agree to go to Hell? With you?"

"Well, I'm not going by myself," the King of Hell crossed his arms sulkily, "Not if I can't even get a Hellhound to stay with me."

"Balls," muttered Bobby, frowning in thought. "I suppose there are some amulets I could work up," he said thoughtfully.

"And we do have the knives," Sam added.

"Excuse me?" gaped Dean, "You two cannot even be contemplating the possibility of even thinking about considering maybe giving some thought to this douche bag demon's idiotic suggestion?"

"I don't see that we have any other choice," Bobby pointed out, as Crowley's face assumed the big-sad-eyed expression that Jimi usually used when he was trying to wheedle deep fried foodstuffs from his Alpha or Second or Dam-Alpha. "Unless you wanna go visit Ronnie, let her damn herself by provoking her until she murders you, leaving Sam to kill her to send her Downstairs, without getting himself killed into the bargain, by her, her mate, or her dog..."

"It could work," Dean mused, nodding, "If I call her a fucking Limey, she'll break my neck before she has time to think about it. If Sam is loaded with silver, he can shoot her, then Andrew, and Jimi can run interference on Joni... what?" Sam was giving him a full frontal Bitchface #11™ (I Am Appalled Dean, I'm Pretty Sure One Of Us Was Actually Adopted). "At least that way I'd die outright and quickly! If Bobby comes with us, he can probably shoot Andrew before he goes alpha male on your ass..."

"Dean," Sam dialled The Bitchface all the way up to eleven.

"Fine," growled Dean, "Fine, we'll all go skipping into Hell, tra-la-la, and get eaten by satanic books in the place's library. But, and I want to be clear about this, if the locals turn up and decide to tear us into teeny tiny little shredded bits over a period of some decades for their own amusement, I reserve the right to scream 'I told you so', repeatedly."

**...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... **

One of Dean's conditions was that he was not going anywhere Downstairs until Sam's hands had healed enough for him to wield a weapon, and it would take a few days for Bobby and Sam to research and put together some protection for them anyway, so Crowley and Orgle left.

That evening, when Sam had gone to bed and Dean had gone out boozing and bonking, Bobby sat in the living room, a book open in front of him. He yawned and rubbed his eyes, and his gaze fell on the TV remote. It had been fairly simple; Orgle explained how swapping to the auxiliary AV input, then changing channels, skipped through various might-have-beens. The connections the helpful fiend had made were still in place...

He hit the 'ON' switch, and picked a channel...

_*****click*****_

John Winchester was a cunning asshole. He knew that Bobby would rant at him, and threaten to fill his ass full of buckshot, but he also knew that as soon as little Sammy came toddling towards him, grinning a gap-toothed smile and squealing "Unca Bumbee!" in delight, and little Deedee came scuttling into his arms, Bobby would laughingly sweep up the two adorable little munchkins, and swing them around, laughing, whilst they shrieked with laughter, and would agree to look after his surrogate daughters for as long as John asked him to...

_*****click*****_

"Come on, guys," the senior monk teaching the class rolled his eyes, making the class laugh even harder, as he attempted to walk them through the conjugation of the verb _futuo_, "If you want this gig, you're never going to do it, but you at least gotta be able to say it properly... seriously, if you can't even say it in Latin without laughing, how are you going to give advice to people about it and keep a straight face? Let's face it, that's something to laugh at; advice on fucking, from we the fuckless..." the Postulants howled with hilarity. Their teacher shook his head. "All right, we'll work up to fucking, maybe we should start with jerking off, _frico_, because I know that you all know about that. Seriously, this monastery goes through the same amount of toilet paper as our sister abbey, so unless you jokers are eating it, or doing origami or something..."

In the next classroom along the corridor, Brother Sebastian paused in the middle of his Scripture class, as the roars of laughter from next door penetrated even the thick walls. He sighed; he really hated taking his classes in the next room when Brother Dean was teaching Latin.

_*****click*****_

Sam graduated at the top of his class, of course, and Bobby and Dean were both there to cheer him on. The Vice Chancellor had a bit of fun in his speech with it, pointing out that with the only male in the entire graduating class getting the top marks, he wasn't sure whether his star student was his best new qualified midwife, or whether he should technically be called a midhusband...

_*****click*****_

Sam smiled at the worried look on Dean's face. "He'll be fine, you know," he said, unable to keep from laughing slightly. Then, because he couldn't resist twisting the knife just a little bit, he added, "I'm sure he'll be just like you were when you were sixteen."

"Oh, ha ha, laugh it up, Gigantor," grumped Dean, Worried Dad written all over his face.

"If you're freaking out about your son taking the car, how the hell are you going to cope when your daughter is old enough to start dating?" Sam asked.

"Oh, God, I think I'll just ground her until she's thirty-five," groaned Dean. "She already has half the boys in her class sniffing around here on weekends."

And that's what was bugging his big brother, Sam knew. Dean had bred attractive kids. Samantha had inherited her looks from her father, and was already growing into a green-eyed stunner. Robert John took almost entirely after his mother; however, the strong jaw and muscular build that frankly could not be called 'attractive' on Ronnie looked damned fine on a sixteen-year-old boy, and the kid knew it...

_*****click*****_

Sam lost his left foot to an IED. Dean lost his in an horrific crash at about 200 mph. Some months later, Mary asked them over a family dinner what they intended to do.

Sam said, "There's a pretty good chance I can go operational again. Otherwise, I'm being headhunted as instructor material."

Dean said, "I'm going to get the stump tattooed so it looks like a dick."

Which is how Dean came to be bent over the kitchen sink, with his mother holding him by the ear and washing his mouth out with soap, while John and Sam howled with laughter. They didn't know it, but she'd been trained as a Hunter. She'd taken down vampires, ghouls, the odd demon, and a couple of wendigos, so her startled six-foot-one son was no challenge and there was no way she was going to tolerate talk like that over the dinner table.

_*****click*****_

Sam scowled around a mouthful of pins at the fabric draped over the mannequin in front of him, as if it was intentionally falling in such a fashion for the express purpose of annoying him, listening to his famously unflappable PA consult his schedule.

"... So, the snivelling sycophant from Vogue will be here at ten," Gabriel read, "Then you got your eyebrow tech coming at eleven, then the bootlicking toady from Harper's at twelve..."

Sam paused, then removed the pins. "Can you swap Amy and the toady from Harper's, so the toady runs into the sycophant from Vogue?" he asked, cocking one eyebrow and making Gabriel think that Amy would be hard-pressed to find any shaping to do but she was getting paid so she would damned well find some stray hair to remove. "It's always fun to watch their faces when they encounter each other. And I do love the smell of malice in the morning."

"Your wish is my command, O Evil Overlord," grinned Gabriel, who considered watching Sam's command of uber-bitchiness one of the perks of his job. "Now, did you want sushi for lunch, or..."

"What I want," Sam growled, glaring at the mannequin again, "Is the head of the idiot who cut this fabric on the bias! I distinctly instructed that it was not to be cut on the bias! Christ, I'm going to start writing in crayon!"

"On a silver platter, or pickled in brine?" asked Gabriel.

"It's that new cow, isn't it? Versace sent her to sabotage me, that fucking luggage woman... what?" Sam looked confused.

"The cutter's head," Gabriel specified, "Do you want it on a silver platter, or pickled in brine?"

"On a pike," Sam muttered, flinging the piece of fabric across his workshop. "So I can throw rocks at it." He huffed in a very put-upon fashion. "What I need right now," he sighed, "Is a frappacino, with lots of whipped cream, chocolate sauce, and a small side helping of innuendo..."

"Sam! Sam!" A breathless gofer whose name he would recall any second now came barrelling into the room.

"Oh, what now?" Sam pinched the bridge of his nose. "You're not the Frappacino Fairy, are you? Gabe, does that Branson guy have his trips off this planet running yet?"

"It's your brother," she said, a worried look on her face. "There's a problem with the shoot..."

"Don't tell me," Sam rolled his eyes, "Jimi doesn't like the photographer, and Dean refuses to have anything to do with anyone his dog doesn't like..."

"The make-up artist tried to use blue-black mascara," she explained, "And, well, you know how, er, volatile Dean can be when he's overdue for his manzilian..."

"Oh, crap," moaned Sam, pushing himself up off his knees. "Tell people to take cover, I'm on my way."

Dean's unhappiness was audible well before Sam got to the studio. He walked in and ducked to avoid a palette of foundation that went sailing past to thwack into the wall. A number of people were hiding behind any available cover while the world's most sought after male supermodel made his displeasure known. And, once again, Dean had set his dog on someone who had pissed him off.

"Blue-black, you asshole!" he raged at the hapless make-up artist, throwing mascara tubes at the cowering man like darts, "Blue-black! My eyes are green, you colour-blind douche! Do you have any idea how badly that clashes? Are trying to make me look like a zombie? If I want my face to look sallow, I'll go take lessons from Karl fucking Lagerfeld!"

"Hey, bro," started Sam, as Jimi tore another piece from the wincing make up artist's trousers, "Do we have a problem?"

"No, no problem at all, Sam," smiled Dean, with an expression that would've looked right at home on the business end of a grumpy alligator, "Apart from this idiot trying to ruin my career by making me look like I've been finger-painted by a kindergarten class..."

"Well, I think he's got the message," Sam suggested, as the unfortunate individual let out a yelp – Jimi had drawn blood – "So, why don't you call off your dog, let him apologise, and just get on with the shoot?"

"Jimi doesn't like him," Dean said sulkily with a pout that made several occupants of the room swoon, "And Jimi is an excellent judge of character. Aren't you, Jimbles?" He smiled beautifully, and the Chihuahua left off savaging the man on the floor and leaped into his doting owner's arms. "Jiminy-Joo here knows an asshole when he sees one," Dean insisted, as the yappy little creature kissed him enthusiastically.

"Okay, we'll get you another make up guy," Sam placated, motioning for a gofer to help the downed man to his feet.

"I can't work like this, Sam," Dean hugged Jimi close, "My chakras are totally unbalanced now. I want a frappacino, with sprinkles on top, and somebody to slap."

"Why don't you come and watch the drones from Vogue and Harper's bump into each other later?" suggested Sam, "We'll get some sushi too."

"Lunch and a floor show!" Dean smiled happily. "I like it! Cas! CAS! Where the hell is Cas?" he bellowed.

"I am right here, Dean," came the gravelly voice of Dean's PA, "There is no need to shout. I took cover behind the flash screens when you began hurling cosmetics." Cas was consulting his Blackberry. "If you intend to spend lunch with your brother watching the magazine representatives pretend not to despise each other, shall I assume that you wish to reschedule your waxing?"

"It's kinda creepy sometimes, the way he does the mind-reading thing," Dean confided to Sam, "But he's the best Man Thursday I've ever had."

"It's 'Man Friday', Dean," Sam rolled his eyes.

"Nope, I gave him the job on a Thursday," Dean waved a perfectly manicured hand airily, "So he's my Man Thursday. And JifflyJiffs loves him. Don't you?" The little Chihuahua wiggled enthusiastically as Dean handed him to Cas, and the little dog licked enthusiastically at the PA's nose.

"This dog is endearing, but he really does need to become appraised of the concept of personal space," Cas chided gently, setting the little animal on the floor, where he began to hump enthusiastically at the PA's leg. Cas sighed, and stood stoically while Jimi the Chihuahua humped breathily.

"Huh," sniffed Dean, "You know, when I tried to do that, he swatted me on the nose with a rolled-up newspaper..."

_*****click*****_

Sam and Jimi came bolting down the stairs when he heard the gasping, rasping sounds coming from the living room. Sam was on the point of dialling 911, convinced that Bobby was having some sort of cardio-neuro seizure, but fortunately Bobby was able to convince him that he'd just seen something very funny on the television.

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><p>Reviews just make me feel faaaaaabulous, dahlings!<p> 


	13. Chapter 11

**Chapter 11**

By the time Bobby was satisfied that they had an adequate contingency plan, Dean could sit down without his green fringy cushion, and Sam was happily enjoying running out the hot water while having a shower all by himself like a big grown up boy.

"You're going to turn into a giant prune," Dean told him over breakfast.

"A giant prune who can bathe without any assistance from you," Sam replied cheerfully, wiggling his fingers at his brother, "A giant prune who can dress himself, a giant prune who can use his laptop, a giant prune who can do up his own fly..."

"A giant prune who is giving me the shits," growled Dean.

"It's what we prunes were born to do," agreed Sam equably. "We're low in fat and high in fibre, so make us part of your healthy breakfast every day! How are we doing with those amulets, Bobby?"

"Just about done," Bobby smiled grimly.

"Well, Crowley will be happy," sighed Dean a bit grumpily.

"If he sees what we've done, possibly not," added Sam, sounding happy about that, too.

"Why? What have you done?" asked Dean, curious.

"Are you familiar with the concept of the pocket nuke?" grinned Bobby. "These things have holy water in 'em. One drop of this stuff spills in Hell, and, well, you remember the Death Star getting blown up?"

"Yeah, although the remastering screwed with it," commented Dean.

"Well, it'd yank our asses out of there, and make the exploding Death Star look like a disappointing fart in a shallow bath," Bobby sounded positively gleeful at the idea of blowing a very large and inconvenient hole in the Infernal Realm. "I thought we might just wait until we're there, then casually let him know..." His phone began to play 'Short People' by Randy Newman. "Ah, that'll be His Midget Majesty, Darth Crowley, right now," he noted, flicking his cell to speaker.

"Bobby, darling, tell me you've got some good news for me," the King of Hell didn't bother with any pleasantries.

"Phyllis Diller is the new head of your nude cheer squad," Bobby told him.

There was a rasping, spluttering sound from the phone, and they distinctly heard Orgle in the background, saying "Are you all right, Mr Crowley? Oh, no, you spilled your drink! I'll get the imps to iron you another shirt..."

"You wound me, Bobby, you wound me," wheezed Crowley, "And run up my dry cleaning expenses. Oh, my poor tie..."

"Sorry about that, Crowley," Bobby replied sincerely, "I really meant to say that it's Donatella Versace."

There was a strangled whining noise from the other end of the line.

"In other news today, we got our insurance ready," Bobby went on, "So we can come hold your hand in the library."

"Wonderful!" Crowley sounded relieved, "I'll be right there... _sniff__sniff._.. oh, no, not again... did you do that? Did you just do that? No! No! Naughty! Bad dog! I put paper down for you and everything! Oh, Orgle, go and get the scooper, will you? How is Maintenance coming along with the pet flap installations?..." Bobby cut the call.

"Sounds like he's still having a bit of trouble with his Hounds," Dean noted with a smirk, as Jimi dialled the Big Brown Eyes up until he solicited a piece of bacon.

"Well, Jimi and Janis are comin' with us," Bobby said firmly, "If we're goin' strolling into the Infernal Archives, I want all the back-up we can possibly manage. Satan's canary wouldn't be a better early warning system than these two, if the situation starts to get nasty."

"Kind of makes me wish I had taught him to crap on carpets on command," mused Dean.

**...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo...**

Crowley showed up a couple of hours later, presumably after making dry cleaning arrangements for his shirt and the carpet in his office, and giving yet another tie a decent funeral. He was carrying a briefcase that clinked.

"So, all ready to go?" he asked brightly, as the Winchesters and Bobby scowled at him.

"Yeah, I just loooooove trips to the library," muttered Dean, "Especially the bit where we sit cross-legged on the rug that smells funny, and Miss reads us a story, while we try to look up her dress."

"Speaking of smelling funny..." Bobby sniffed and frowned. "Crowley, have you changed your aftershave to Essence of Excrement, or are you even more worried about this trip than you've already let on?"

"It's not me, it's Rover here," replied Crowley, patting what appeared at first glance to be empty air at about waist height. "Been having a bit of, er, tummy trouble, I think."

"What, ate someone who disagreed with him?" sneered Dean.

"Her," corrected Crowley snippily, as Jimi edged forward and sniffed at the shimmering space next to Crowley, tail wagging, "I think she might have a bit of... travel sickness."

"Travel sickness?" chorused the Winchester in their best Doublemint Twins fashion.

"I don't know!" snapped Crowley, as Janis came forward to greet the Hellhound, "How does a creature that ingests souls, terror and suffering manage to produce crap in the first place, anyway? Maybe her last job was fetching somebody who was indigestibly happy!"

"Isn't she a little short to be a Hellhound?" asked Dean critically, as Jimi dropped into a play-bow, rump in the air and tail waving.

"Well, a lot more of them have gone missing," Crowley muttered sullenly, "And the ones left behind are the less... intimidating specimens."

"I think I might have a lead on where they've been going," Sam said. "While I was looking for info on the restless spirits we've been dealing with, I noticed that a lot of the papers or news sites that mentioned the events due to their manifestations were also running 'feel good' stories about stray dogs turning up, and being adopted by local families, often about the same time our wicked people died." He tapped at his laptop, and turned the screen around. "Here. A know pedophile died – a week later, a stray dog who'd been adopted in the same neighbourhood foiled a home invasion. Another one: a Dalmatian mysteriously turned up at a fire scene and adopted a fire crew – he's turned out to be quite the animal hero, has a habit of running into burning buildings. He found three people trapped in a burning warehouse in his first week on the job. An elderly lady who recently lost her lapdog found another one in her front yard, after the retired armed robber two doors down died – it raised the alarm with the neighbours when she fell and broke her arm. The day a professional conman was gunned down, another family found a stray dog pulling their toddler out of the swimming pool."

Bobby couldn't keep the smile off his face. "So, you think that the Hellhounds are forgettin' to fetch who they've been sent to get, and finding themselves families instead?"

"And, by all accounts, being perfect pets, if not animal heroes," finished Sam.

"Oh, this just gets better and better," moaned Crowley, "They're not just disappearing, they're deserting. They're defecting! Working for the old enemy, even...Hey, don't do that!" Jimi had broken off to fetch his Oinker Stoinker toy, and was apparently enjoying a tug-of-war with an invisible opponent. "Don't teach her games!"

"Here, try one of these," Bobby returned from the kitchen. "Ginger cookies. Good for a squicky tummy, man or beast. Hey girl!" Bobby called, waving a cookie.

The shimmering patch of empty air broke off, and wafted across to him, bouncing up and down.

"What the hell are you doing?" demanded Crowley.

"Ah!" snapped Bobby in a correcting tone, "Git down! Sit! Sit! You don't get anythin' until all four feet are on the ground, missy! Sit!" The hovering haze stilled. "All right then, here's your cookie. Now, gentle, gentle, that's it..." with a slightly disturbing _slurrrrp_ noise, the cookie vanished into thin air.

"Stop it! Stop it!" Crowley demanded, almost stamping a foot, "Robert Singer, you stop training my Hellhound this instant!"

"Well, bang up job you've been doin," Bobby replied, "No! No! Get down! Sit! Good girl..."

"Fuck my afterlife," Crowley muttered bad-temperedly. "So, do we all have our book bags, children?"

"Hold your horses," instructed Bobby, handing small amulets to Sam and Dean, then bending to tie one onto each dog's collar. "These are on a time limit, too," he told Crowley, "So if we're not back when time's up, we'll come back anyway."

"Bobby, mate, you wouldn't just up and leave me to be torn apart by vicious books, would you?" pleaded Crowley.

"Crowley," Bobby said smilingly, "I'd hold their dust jackets while they did it."

Crowley slumped. "I think I need a ginger cookie," he sighed.

**...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo...**

Travelling by DemonAir was not like travelling by AngelAir. Whereas poofing somewhere with Castiel was like having the world lurch suddenly just a little bit sideways, a lift with Crowley was more like a prolonged elevator ride, slightly crowded, what with four humans-at-some-time and three certain-proportion-of-Hellhounds...

"I feel sick."

"Here, have a ginger cookie, ya idjit."

"Are we there yet?"

"No."

"Are we there yet?"

No."

"Are we there yet?"

"No!"

"Are we there yet?"

"Winchester, shut up, you pillock!"

"God's tits, what is that smell?"

"Ohhh, fuck me, you been eating burritos again, Francis?"

"What? No! It wasn't me!"

"I did tell you, I think her tummy is a bit upset."

"She'd better have another ginger cookie."

"Hey, you know how zapping somewhere with Cas has certain... effects..."

"Shut up, Dean."

"Well, do you think that this trip will cause, you know, the mail to stop moving...?"

"Dean! Shut! Up!"

"Look, I just think it's important to know whether we need to take preventative measures as soon as we get back, you know, make prunes a regular part of our healthy breakfast..."

"I SO do NOT want to have this conversation with you."

"You are the last person I'd expect to be coy on the subject, considering just how... chemically creative your gastrointestinal tract can be, Toxic Taco Boy. Maybe I should try feeding you ginger cookies. It couldn't make the atmosphere in the car any worse... AAAAAARGH! Bomby! Bomby! He shovbed a biece of cookie righd ub my dose!"

"What are you pair, three?"

"Oh no, oh no, no nononononono... aaaaaargh! Oh, Lucifer's bum! It's corroding my shoes!"

"Huh. Looks like it was the Hellhound, after all."

"I really do feel a bit sick."

"Dean, I'm warning you, boy, you take a dump here and I will rub your nose in it."

... to arrive in what appeared to be a dimly lit foyer with very high ceilings, imposing dark wood panelling, and frosted glass doors that had a cheerful motif of demons with whips flaying the hides from the Damned etched into the borders.

A large brass plaque, engraved in heavy gothic script, listed the hours.

**HOURS OF BUSINESS:**

**OPENING TIME: Five Hours After You Arrive.**

**CLOSING TIME: Five Minutes After You Arrive.**

**CLOSED: Weekdays, Weekends, Public Holidays, Bank Holidays **

**and Everyone's Birthday**

**Also**

**Assorted Days To Be Decided by the Senior Librarian**

**Including**

**Any Time You Really Need To Look Something Up.**

"Gentlemen," stated Crowley grimly, "Welcome to Hell."

* * *

><p>Reviews are the Ginger Bikkies on the Saucer of Life!<p> 


	14. Chapter 12

**Chapter 12**

Dean voiced everyone's thoughts when he put a hand on Jimi's neck, and said, "You know, Jimi, I don't think we're in South Dakota anymore..."

It was, as Crowley had indicated, the Library not just from Hell, but of Hell. They pushed through the doors, the hinges creaking and groaning like the axles of a mediaeval siege engine.

The ceilings were striped with ever-so-slightly-strobing fluorescent tubes that rendered all areas either too bright or too dim for comfortable reading, and guaranteed a headache for anyone who battled on for more than a few minutes. A large pasteboard notice on an easel spelled out, in painstaking copperplate, the fines for overdue books.

FINES FOR LATE RETURNS:

5 – 60 seconds: one week in the Lower Circle

1 – 5 minutes: two weeks in the Lower Circle

5 – 60 minutes: three weeks in the Lower Circle

1 – 24 hours: hanging, drawing, quartering

1 – 7 days: dangling, dragging, eighthing

1 – 2 weeks: a fortnight as a Library Monitor

More than 2 weeks: You Are Invited To Discuss Your Atrocious Manners With The Senior Librarian

"Holy crap," whispered Dean, keeping Jimi close, "You weren't kidding..."

They walked under an intricate arch of metalwork, with lettering proclaiming that READING WILL MAKE YOU FREE, into the main area of the library.

It was, as Crowley had said, all about perceptions.

A large wrought iron frame hung from the ceiling by massive, cobweb-encrusted, corrosion-etched chains, which might have been at home anchoring an aircraft carrier. Within the frame, which swung and creaked slightly in some unseen current of air, was fastened a large sign, entitled RULES OF THE LIBRARY.

Crowley read the sign, and saw:

NO TALKING. NO EATING. NO DRINKING.

NO BOY WILL BE EXCUSED TO THE REFECTORY UNTIL ALL PREP IS COMPLETED.

ATTENDANCE AT LATIN CLASS BEFORE BREAKFAST IS COMPULSORY.

Bobby read the sign, and saw:

NO TALKING. NO EATING. NO DRINKING.

NO READING OF ANY BOOKS UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCES.

Sam read the sign, and saw:

NO TALKING. NO EATING. NO DRINKING. NO REASONING. NO DEDUCTION.

NO USE OF THE CATALOGUE.

NONE OF THE ITEMS IN THIS LIBRARY ARE SHELVED ACCORDING TO ANY SORT OF LOGICAL SYSTEM ANYWAY.

WE NAILED THE CATALOGUE DRAWERS SHUT TOO.

Dean read the sign, and saw:

NO TALKING. NO EATING. NO DRINKING.

NO MAKING OF ANNOYING NOISES. NO SNIGGERING.

NO ATTEMPTING TO VIEW STAFF MEMBERS' UNDERGARMENTS.

NO PASSING OF NOTES.

NO PASSING OF GAS.

NO NAPPING.

NO VANDALISING THE DESKS. NO VANDALISING THE BOOKS.

NO READING OF COMICS.

NO LEERING.

NO MASTURBATION.

NO FONDLING OF MEMBERS OF THE OPPOSITE SEX.

NO MAKING OUT.

NO REMOVAL OF UNDERWEAR.

NO FORNINCATING.

THESE ALL APPLY TO YOU, DEAN WINCHESTER, EVEN THOUGH YOU THINK THAT RULES ARE STUPID. I SWEAR, MY BOY, I WILL HIT IT WITH A RULER.

All of them read the same warning at the bottom of the sign:

**BREACHES OF LIBRARY RULES WILL RESULT IN THE CULPRIT BEING INVITED TO EXPLAIN HIS OR HER ATROCIOUS MANNERS TO THE SENIOR LIBRARIAN.**

"Wow," said Sam, swallowing, "Wow, that's... harsh."

"I did say," grumped Crowley, in a decidedly 'I Told You So' tone.

"So, where do we start?" asked Sam, "If we can't even use the catalogue..."

"What?" asked Bobby, confused.

"It says up there," Sam pointed to the Rules, "No using the catalogue."

Bobby squinted up at the sign. "That might be what it says to you," he griped, "I'm not even allowed to read the books."

"I get the feeling I'm not even wanted here," muttered Dean, "Even if I keep all my clothes on."

Sam approached one of the shelves that disappeared into a distorted-perspective distance, and pulled out a dusty tome. " 'One Slavering Daeva, Two Slavering Daeva, Red Slavering Daeva, Blue Slavering Daeva'," he read, looking bewildered.

"This must be the Imps' Literature section," suggested Crowley.

Bobby pulled out a book, reasoning that as long as he didn't open it he was safe. " 'The Little Rack That Could'," he read. "And here's 'The Tail Of Peter Rabbit'. By Dominatrix Potter."

" 'Charlotte's Web Of Lies And Betrayal'," Sam found, moving along the shelf. " 'The Very Hungry Werewolf'," he announced, pulling the large book out. "Oh, look, this one has pictures," he went on, "As the very hungry werewolf eats holes through the butcher, the teacher, the policeman, the doctor, the vicar..."

" 'Goodnight, Blood-Red Portentous Moon'," Bobby read. " 'Where The Wild Things Tear Souls Into Teeny Little Pieces'." He squinted at the next one. " 'Winnie The Mutant Black Bear'. 'Now We Are Sick'. 'Massacre In The Hundred Acre Wood'."

"Thomas The Strappado Engine'," Dean identified another series, and picked out a book. " 'Thomas the Strappado Engine lived in the Big Dungeon with his friends'," he read, " ' There was Mavis the Iron Maiden, and Gordon the Rack, James the Head Crusher, and Thomas's best friend, Percy the Choke-Pear. They all worked for the Fat Inquisitor. One day, the Fat Inquisitor came hurrying into the dungeon. 'Thomas!' he said, consulting his watch, 'The heretics are running behind schedule! We must get more confessions, and quickly!' " He shut the book, looking slightly green. "I guess it's more interesting than 'See Spot Run', but I can't see it winning any prizes."

"This looks to be more appropriate to fiends," mused Crowley, a couple of shelves along. " 'Tomorrow When The Apocalypse Began', 'Anne Of Gangrene Gables', 'The Famous Five Go Raping And Pillaging,' ah, and here's 'Sunset', hmmmm, now this series is really something," he looked thoughtful, pulling the book from the shelves. "It's a bit creepy, really, there are some very senior she-demons who are obsessed with this, they call themselves Sunset Ladies..."

"You gotta be kidding me," asserted Dean, grabbing at the book to read the back cover. " 'Della Swoon moves to a new town with her father, where she meets the mysterious Edmond, and the charismatic Jason. They tear her to pieces during one of their frequent outbursts of orgiastic depravity, and bathe in her disgusting human blood while pleasuring each other with their wide selection of'..." he dropped the book as if it had bitten him. "Bobby," he moaned, "Bobby, I really, really need a ginger cookie, like, NOW..."

"I had these run past Thomas Bowdler and his sister Harriet, and shipped off to some unsuspecting author Topside," Crowley grinned happily. "It lost a bit in translation, but it's working better than I could ever have anticipated. The stench of so many young brains rotting while still inside their owners' skulls is perfume to my jaded nose."

Sam stared at Crowley. "You really do have touches of evil genius," he stated flatly.

" 'Alimentary Adventures With Entrails', by Martha Stew-it," read Bobby. "Sounds like we've hit cook books."

"Or anatomy," mused Sam.

"It could still be an imps' book," Dean pointed out, "You know, Entrails the Hellhound grows up and learns to rip out peoples' guts then goes home for a nap."

It turned out to be a travelogue written by a witch-turned-demon who had very strange tastes in holiday destinations, landscape renditions and visual arts media.

Using Dean's talent for spotting patterns, Sam's height, Bobby's talent with languages, Crowley's scotch and a steady supply of ginger cookies, they tried to get some sense of where to look for what they were after, spreading out as much as they could while remaining within earshot of each other.

"Anything that might remotely be relevant," Sam muttered to himself, huffing as he put 'A Dictionary Of Offensive Onomatopoeia' back, "Pet care, training, See Gnasher Run, anything!" He scowled at the shelf. "There's nothing! No sense at all to the arrangement of this stuff. Anybody else having any luck?" he raised his voice.

"Yeah," replied Crowley, "I'm the one with the booze. Cheers, fellas."

Sam rounded a shelf, to find Dean sitting cross-legged on the floor, reading intently. "You found something, bro?" he asked.

Eyes alight with astonishment, Dean raised the book so that Sam could read the title on the cover. _The __Joy __of __Socks._

Sam gulped. "Dean," he began slowly, "Dean, tell me that you've found a book about... learning to knit."

Dean slowly turned the book around, craning his neck. "I will tell you," he answered slowly, "That there are some very interesting diagrams about how to tie the ends off so it looks neat."

"Oh, God," Sam swayed on his feet, "Bobby, I need a cookie! Bobby!" There was no answer. "Bobby?" called Sam more uncertainly. Bobby was conspicuous by his absence.

"Where did he go?" asked Crowley in a slightly panicked voice, hearing Sam call.

"I don't know!" Sam peered down several aisles. "Bobby!" He threw his hands up. "He was just one shelf along from me, and now he's gone!"

"This is not good, this is so not good," muttered Dean, putting down his book, "We have to find him, right now."

Crowley nodded vigorously. "For one thing," he pointed out, "Bobby has the ginger snaps. Bobby," he called, wandering along the ends of the shelves, "Bobby, where are you, not funny, Bobby, scaring people here, darling..." they scoured the immediate area, but Bobby and Janis were gone.

"Jimi will find him," asserted Dean, calling the dog close. "Bobby, J-Man," he said, "Find Bobby! Bobby! Where's Bobby? Find Bobby! Find Bobby, J-Man! He's got the cookies, dude!"

Jimi swung his head from side to side, scenting the air, casting for a trail to follow. He turned around a couple of times, sniffing, then dropped his muzzle to the floor, and began to follow his nose...

Picking up speed, he trotted briskly along a couple of shelves, then turned into a main aisle. A large arrowed sign on the wall read:

SENIOR LIBRARIAN - - - - - -►

"Oh, no," Crowley breathed, "No, no, oh, this is terrible! He's headed straight for her! We have to get to him first! Bobby! Bobby! Hang on, Bobby!" he cried, scuttling after Jimi, "Hang on! Be brave, love, we're coming to save you!"

Exchanging a look that was part concern, part bewilderment and part eye-roll, the Winchesters followed.

**...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo...**

Perspective, visual or intellectual, can be a funny thing.

Artists expend a lot of effort learning about it (unless you're really just interested in putting sharks in tanks of formaldehyde or turning urinals into fountains, then the whole draw-the-railway-tracks-disappearing-into-the-vanishing-point is redundant, and you're actually just a pretentious wanker who's fooled a lot of fatuous idiots into believing that you are somehow a creative genius). Teenagers are notoriously deficient in it. Spoiled third-class celebrities who are not famous for any sensible reason and who cry long, loud and very publicly about being held to account for their own actions because, like, jail is just SO not for them, have none whatsoever. Politicians can also be sadly lacking in perspective, but they have people to tell the public that this is not the case, and anyway it's probably damned difficult to see anything clearly with your head that far up your own arse so maybe we should be a bit more understanding of our elected representatives. Or not. Not is fine.

There's probably no such thing as having too much perspective, but having a lot of it at once can be decidedly uncomfortable. Ask a parent with a new baby. Or somebody with a serious illness. Or a triage physician. Or a sapper trying to clear a road of IEDs. Or the cop who held some guy's head together after he was shot, until the ambulance arrived. Or a woman who's had to fly somewhere for work, and has gone into that bonsai toilet facility in the plane, which is always really brightly lit, to the point where it's feasible that they actually put runway landing lights around the mirror, and as she washes her hands, she notices that she actually has a jet-black hair like pig bristle more than an inch long growing out of the side of her face and she's never seen it before and JUMPING JESUS ON A FUCKING POGO STICK how long have I been walking around with that HAWSER hanging off my face? Months? Years? And why the hell didn't anybody SAY ANYTHING? And most importantly, is there a pair of tweezers anywhere on this plane?

The brain has ways of protecting itself from too much perspective, visual or intellectual, because that sort of clarity can do serious damage to your sanity. Which is probably why Dean, Sam and Crowley saw different things as they scoped out the large desk from the safety of the shelves.

The desk itself messed with visual perspective the way that a three-year-old will do, drawing Mommy and Daddy bigger than the house, and the flowers bigger again. (Unless we're dealing with some prodigy who's making a scathing indictment of the runaway speculation in the property market, with a row of Triffids representing Big Finance and the dog kennel representing all that ordinary people can afford, in which case, it might be lucrative to buy them a My First Pickled Shark Kit and get them on X-Factor.) From a distance, it looked to be the size of a bus, and the figure sitting behind it seemed to be too large to sit at it, but as they warily made their way closer, the distant scene resolved into something that a brain born human can cope with a bit more readily.

Behind the large edifice of ancient oak sat a female figure. And that's where visual and intellectual perspective started to go a bit pickled shark around the edges, if not actually being flushed down the urinal fountain.

Sam saw Miss Hennessey, an elderly lady who'd been ready to retire from her teaching job years before he came into her Elementary School class; one afternoon, in a fit of tidiness, she'd declared his shaggy hair an abomination unto Good Grooming, and had chased him around the classroom with a pair of scissors...

Dean saw Mrs Woodruff. She'd been their neighbour when he was eleven, and Dad had asked her to check on them, because Sammy was sick. He'd found a magazine in a dumpster when he took the trash out, with pictures of ladies with no clothes... he hadn't heard Mrs Woodruff let herself into their cruddy apartment, and she had shrieked at him like a harpy and grabbed him by the ear and dragged him next door into her cruddy apartment that smelled like cat pee, and she'd given him a good spray of horrible lavender water because she said he stunk of perversion and she spanked him with the rolled up magazine and told him over and over what a horrible, nasty, dirty, dirty, DIRTY little boy he was and how he was going to make it fall off if he played with it...

Crowley saw Sister Josephus, overseer of the younger classes, she who ruled over scripture lessons with an iron fist, and once reduced herself to exhaustion whilst explaining the numinous mystery of the Heavenly Father's nature to him. She did this by caning him repeatedly, shouting "God! Is! Love!", one word with each stroke, until the cane split...

But all of them could make out the same figure on the other side of the desk.

It was Bobby.

* * *

><p>Reviews are the Amusingly Offensive Onomatopoeia in the Silent Reading Room of Life!<p>

Now, as soon as you've done your review, anyone who read 'Monkey Business' should go IMMEDIATELY to Bartlebead's LJ page, to look at some FANART! A couple of kindred spirits share a moment of intellectual superiority over a nice banana...

http **COLONSLASHSLASH** rince1wind**DOT** livejournal**DOT** com

It's the entry for 21 November.

Ook!


	15. Chapter 13

_something for Katiki, and any other would-be Sunset Ladies..._

**SPECIAL BONUS FEATURE: **_**Extract from 'Sliver of Sunrise,' the final novel of the 'Sunset' series.**_

"What's wrong, Jason?" asked Edmond, his amber eyes staring meaningfully yet vacuously at his partner, "Is it time for your worming tablet?"

"No, Edmond," Jason replied, pausing temporarily in licking his own nether regions, a habit he indulged in when he was nervous, or Edmond had a headache, "My bottom is not the least bit itchy."

"Well, let me know if it is," smiled Edmond, "I would be happy to scratch it for you. No hands, even."

"It's not my bottom, Edmond!" Jason burst out, ludicrously defined abs quivering in worry.

"My big bad wolf," Edmond gathered Jason into his arms, "Something is troubling you. Shall I carry you up a tree? Peeing on the uppermost branches of a tree rather than the trunk always makes you so happy."

"I'm hungry," Jason sighed, "And we've already eaten your coven, my pack, and an assortment of simpering humans, after having torn them to pieces and defiled their twitching bleeding corpses with a selection of battery-powered strap-ons that are probably illegal in some states before indulging ourselves in a series of acts that defy the most flagrant of human homosexual gratifications..."

"Then, we will find you someone else," Jason assured him, "And we can have brutal sex in front of a mirror so you can watch yourself flex while we rut. I am concerned, though," he went on, his pale skin blending in with the wallpaper, "You have been very hungry. You even ate your father's wheelchair. Are you quite certain you do not have worms? Or some sort of parasitic infestation?"

"Oh, Edmond!" Jason wailed, "I'm hungry all the time because... I'm pregnant with your puppies!"

Edmond frowned. "Is this one of those m-preg things I've read about?" he asked.

"Yes!" answered Jason tearfully, pecs twitching as his breath hitched, "And I'm scared, Edmond, I'm so scared! They're going to tear their way out of my body to be born!"

"Don't be ridiculous, you silly-billy," smiled Edmond, stroking Jason's hair gently, "It is much more likely that our children will be born out of your bottom. That's why they're called 'assbabies', you goose. And if necessary, if they do tear their way out of you, I will turn you into a vampire, and save you, and we will be a happy, perverted family with our adorable children forever."

"It's not that," sobbed Jason, "I'm terrified about what being pregnant will do to my abs! I'll lose all my definition, and there will be stretch marks... oh, what if I start lactating? I'LL GET BITCH TITS!"

"Oh, nonsense," insisted Edmond, "You will be more attractive than ever, because you will be the father of my children, and I will love you for that even more than I already do, if that is at all possible. I think that being m-pregnant might be disrupting your hormones, and making you feel emotionally volatile."

"You're probably right," sniffed Jason, subsiding.

"Why don't we do something fun today?" suggested Edmond, "Just the two of us. We'll pick up a couple of hitch-hikers, then have a picnic, and afterwards I shall serve you iced tea and dainty cookies, then you can spank me on the picnic rug whilst you violate me with a tree branch until I moan erotically and afterwards we can cuddle and find shapes in the clouds."

Jason sighed dreamily. "Would you wear your diamond nipple clamps for me?" he asked.

Edmond looked thoughtful. "You know, I think I'd rather use clothes pegs," he decided, "Because the idea of parenthood is making me feel very domestic."

* * *

><p><em>Meanwhile, back in the Library of Hell...<em>

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 13<strong>

"What the hell is happening?" huffed Sam, squinting to try to see what was going on.

Crowley swallowed nervously. "It looks as though he might have been invited to, er, explain himself," he observed unhappily.

"What?" demanded Dean. "But he didn't read any of the books! He just looked at the titles!"

"Maybe that was enough to be considered breaking of the Rules," commented Crowley miserably.

"Well, you get your royal ass out there, Your Majesty who is King of Hell, and intervene!" Sam hissed at the cowering demon, "We're here to help you, you can damned well return the favour!"

"I can't!" Crowley wrung his hands, "That's Verael! She's not just some brainless bully of a demon who happens to have a large retinue of sycophants who prop up his importance in the scheme of things, she's Fallen! She is not someone to cross!"

"I thought you were the boss Down Here," sneered Sam, "Are you telling me you're frightened by the librarian?"

"Frightened, no," Crowley muttered, taking a drink directly from the bottle, "Terrified, cowed, intimidated, and utterly shit-scared, yes. Some days, just seeing one of her little notes attached to a file means that I have to have a drink and a little lie down." He looked sadly at the scene at the other end of the library. "There's nothing we can do for Bobby now," he sighed, "All we can do is try to save ourselves..."

"Fuck that," Dean stated grimly, pulling his amulet out of his shirt, "I say we set this off."

"What is that thing?" asked Crowley, eyeing the small glass item warily.

"This is our Get Out Of Hell Free card," Dean informed him with a smirk. "Containing, amongst other things, holy water..."

Crowley's voice hit a pitch that Maria Callas could only manage on a good day.

"You brought holy water Down Here?" he squeaked, his eyes attempting to bug right out of his head. "What in the name of all that is perverted made you bring holy water Downstairs?"

"Oh, the fact that you're an unscrupulous, treacherous, double-crossing asshole who cannot be trusted," shrugged Dean.

"Seriously, are you determined to scare me to death before she does?" Crowley eyed the small vial as if it was a poisonous insect. "You really put holy water in there?" he asked in a voice that pleaded to be told that it was just a joke.

"Amongst other things," replied Sam casually. "Insurance, remember? We pop one of these things, we all get whisked away back home."

"Unfortunately I forgot my ruby slippers, but this ought to do it," Dean noted, dropping the small thing to the floor, and raising a boot.

"NOOOOOOOOOOOOO!" wailed Crowley, diving to the floor and wrapping himself around Dean's leg, "No, no, nononononononono, you don't understand, it'll be like setting off a hand grenade in a marshmallow shop!"

"What a shame," mused Sam, "What we were hoping for was more atomic bomb in an ice factory."

"But... but... you'll destroy the library!" Crowley pleaded, "And probably a large chunk of infernal real estate too, including several levels of the Lower Circle."

"Yeah, but that's just a bonus," Dean told him, wiggling his leg. "Hey! Let go of me, you weirdo!"

"But you'll destroy the Archives," Crowley persisted desperately, "And anything in there that might help fix the Hellhound problem!"

"Then we'll have to look somewhere else," Dean said, "I mean it, let go of my leg... Sam," Dean growled, "Did you just take a picture, bitch?"

"But you'll destroy meeeeeeeee!" howled the King of Hell.

"Hmmmm, yeah, okay," mused Dean, "That's true. Wow, this is a tough one. Save Bobby from a Fallen angel, but turn Crowley into a shadow on a wall. Gosh, that is a conundrum. I'll have think about that okay I've thought about it, and you will be vapourised out of existence, but that's a price I'm willing to pay. Now, get the hell off my leg!"

"Waaaaaaaaaaah!" went Crowley.

"Maybe we can try to get a bit closer, and see what's going on," suggested Sam, putting his cell away. "They don't seem to be, well, doing anything."

"Fine," scowled Dean, "Fine, we'll sneak up on the Fallen angel, because that's such a smart thing to do, but I reserve the right to click my heels at any time I think any human is in imminent danger."

Carefully, they made their way along the shelves, heading for the Senior Librarian's desk. Their progress was slowed somewhat by the demon clinging to Dean's leg, and whimpering piteously.

"Shut up, Crowley, for fuck's sake!" Dean growled, "And get off me! You're like a clingy three-year-old who's overtired and won't go to bed!"

"Promise you won't nuke me?" asked Crowley timorously.

"No," answered Dean shortly.

"Er, guys," began Sam.

"Promise me!" yelped Crowley, clinging on tightly.

"Yeah, okay, I promise not to nuke you," sighed Dean.

"Er, guys," Sam tried again.

"You do?" pressed Crowley, getting to his feet.

"Absolutely," Dean confirmed. "I promise not to nuke you, and I am as sincere in that promise as you were when you said you could retrieve Sam's soul... hey, stay the hell off my leg!"

"Er, guys," Sam was nothing if not persistent.

"What?" asked Dean.

"Before you nuke anybody, you might want to take a look at this," Sam jerked a thumb in the direction of the desk.

They carefully pulled some books from the shelf, and peered through, taking in the scene before them.

Bobby sat down at the desk opposite the Senior Librarian.

He took off his hat.

"What the...?" wondered Dean, bemused.

"We gotta get closer," decided Sam, "Come on."

Another figure shambled into view.

"Is that... Crowley, is that Orgle?" asked Dean, bemused. "And is he carrying what I think he's carrying?"

**...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... **

"It does seem something of a coincidence that both of them used similar literary devices in their allegorical explorations of the afterlife," the well-dressed Lady Of A Certain Age said. If Bobby had been asked to describe her, he would've said that she put him in mind of Dame Helen Mirren.

"I've seen suggestions that Alighieri drew on early Islamic philosophy traditions," he replied, "In the _Paradiso_ especially, but I haven't seen report of any credible evidence that he had access to the writings of Ibn Arabi."

"Brunetto Latini met Bonaventura de Siena, the Tuscan who translated the _Kitab __al __Miraj_ into Latin," she countered. "Ah, thank you, Orgle," she smiled at the fiend who carefully placed the tea tray on the end of her desk. "Sugar, Mr Singer?"

"Bobby, please," the old Hunter smiled. "Just one, thank you. Met, yes, and he may even have sighted the translation, but that doesn't mean he was given a copy, which he could pass on to his student. It would've been a handwritten translation, labour intensive, not to be given away lightly."

"Dante of course was born into a society that was heir to the mediaeval traditions of liturgical drama, and morality plays," she conceded, offering a plate of chocolate-coated cookies, "Are you acquainted with the baked goods referred to as 'TimTams', Bobby?"

"I have in fact been introduced to them by another Hunter," said Bobby, "And I must say, madam, that I believe them to be the work of one of your contemporaries. They are utterly addictive, and what you are doin' probably constitutes temptation, Senior Librarian."

"Just Verael will do, Bobby," she smiled. "They are indeed indulgent, and if not consumed in moderation, detrimental to human health. And I see that Orgle has fetched a tidbit for your dog. That was very thoughtful of you, Orgle," she praised, and the fiend fidgeted, two of his mouths smiling shyly back. She daintily lifted the bloody steak from the china dish with a pair of silver tongs, and offered it to Janis, who took it gently. "What lovely manners she has," the librarian observed.

"Dogs have to be taught their place in the pack," Bobby expounded, "They have to be taught right. They're actually happiest when they know their place in the pack, and have clear leadership."

"Oh, that is so true," she nodded, "I do wish you could speak to Crowley about that. His Hounds, Bobby, his Hounds! They have no discipline. The noise they make sometimes. And the mess! There is a certain amount of tittle-tattle," her mouth drew into a moue of disapproval, "Suggesting that they are not performing their duties as assiduously as would be ideal."

"Indeed," agreed Bobby, sipping at his tea, "It is that very problem that has brought me here in search of information..."

**...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... **

Three pairs of eyes gaped at the scene before them.

"What the hell is he doing?" asked Dean in astonishment.

"Talking to her, I'd say," replied Sam.

"Is he nuts?" wondered Dean out loud.

"Well, not really," Sam answered, "Because although Brunetto Latini was Alighieri's teacher and mentor, it's not like they communicated the way that people do now, and even in the event that he did procure a copy of the translation from de Siena, Bobby's right, there's no evidence that..."

"No, no, no!" snapped Dean, "I mean, what the hell does he think he's doing, talking to... what are they doing now?"

"Taking tea, it looks like," Sam peered between the books. "And eating cookies. Chocolate coated cookies."

"It'll be TimTams," Crowley whispered, "Some of R&D's finest work. Do you have any idea how many people are tempted into Gluttony by those things?"

"Is this how she usually operates?" asked Dean anxiously, "She fattens her prey up before she bites their heads off?"

"She's only rumoured to do that with cherubs, to use their blood for ink, and I don't believe it, because I get a fully documented requisition for stationery supplies, including red ink for her pen and her stamp pads, every calendar month," Crowley told them.

They watched, bemused, as Bobby and Verael chatted, the Senior Librarian making some notes occasionally. She dispatched Orgle to some task, and the fiend returned shortly with a couple of armfuls of heavy, dusty folios and books. She gestured towards a door that looked like it had been taken directly from a 13th century moated castle. It was grim, it was forbidding, it looked like it would stand up to battering by a rampaging army.

Bobby smiled, and headed for the door, with Orgle following him.

"Where are they going?" asked Dean, as Crowley watched on with wide eyes.

"I don't know for sure," he began uncertainly, "Nobody's allowed in there. It's always locked, and nobody goes in – I know a couple of demons who have tried to sneak in there, but if they do, nobody comes out..."

The door opened. Bobby and Orgle went in.

"Bobby!" shouted Dean, breaking cover from behind the shelves, sprinting for the door with Sam hot on his heels and Jimi at his side.

They almost made it, when a flash that would have done a nuclear explosion proud came from the gap between door and jamb.

They threw themselves flat, eyes scrunched closed against the blinding light and the searing heat that leaked out from the gaps around the door.

"Bobby!" called Dean, "Bobby, are you in there?"

"Bobby!" Sam joined in, getting no response. He stared at the door, as it swung open. Wisps of steam were drifting out. "She... vapourised him," he said, frozen in disbelief. "Dean, she vapourised Bobby, and Orgle..."

"Ahem," a voice behind them cleared its throat in a rather pointed fashion. They turned.

Behind the desk, Miss Hennessy/Mrs Woodruff cleared her throat, and, with a fountain pen, pointed to a Rules sign hanging above them. The NO TALKING part was flashing in lime green neon.

"Screw that," muttered Dean, drawing his knife, intent of killing the think that had smoked his surrogate father or dying trying...

"Ah, there you are, ya idjits," came from behind him. Dean spun around.

Bobby emerged from the doorway, fanning the dispersing steam away. "You have good timing," he went on, indicating that they should take some of the bundles of paper from Orgle, "I'll need you chuckleheads to help me cart this lot back Upstairs."

Sam's eyes bugged. "Bobby?" he asked uncertainly.

"Yeah?" replied Bobby, giving Sam the old hairy eyeball. "Are you all right, son?" he asked. "Here, you look like you need a ginger cookie..."

"You... you... " Dean stared in incomprehension. "You went in there, and, and..."

"We thought you'd exploded," finished Sam. "Um."

"Oh, that," Bobby waved a hand airily. "Hell's photocopiers do pack a punch."

"Photocopiers?" echoed Crowley, drifting out from the shelves and trying to hide behind Sam.

"Yeah, photocopiers," Bobby repeated. "Senior Librarian Verael," he nodded to Miss Hennessy/Mrs Woodruff, "Very kindly let me use the copiers on some material for the Archives. Verael, these are my practically-nephews, Dean and Sam Winchester," he finished.

The Senior Librarian of Hell eyed the Winchester shrewdly. "My sister Danael has spoken of you both," she said eventually.

"Um," went Sam again, not sure if that was good or bad.

The librarian turned to face Crowley. "Hello Crowley," she greeted him, her pleasant tone overlying molten steel, "Bobby tells me that there are in existence items called 'Post-It Notes'. They are self-adhesive, and would represent an enormous saving on staples, whenever I have one of my suggestions to send to you. I would be grateful if you would procure a modest supply for the library."

"Post-It Notes!" cried Crowley, smiling, "Marvellous things! If Post-Its you want, Post-Its you shall have, Senior Librarian Verael! I shall procure a positive plethora of Post-Its! Post-Its, post haste!"

"Thank you," she smiled icily. "And now, I suspect that your guests will wish to return to their plane, and make a start on find a solution for the problem that is causing you some difficulty?" she suggested solicitously, accusation of incompetence dripping from every syllable.

"Of course, of course," Crowley grinned, just a little desperately, "And I can fetch you some Post-Its while I'm Up There! Ha ha!"

"Ha ha indeed, Crowley," Verael's smile did not go anywhere near her eyes. "So nice to meet you, Bobby," she went on, "It's always a pleasure to meet another bibliophile and well-read seeker of knowledge."

"The pleasure was all mine, Verael," Bobby replaced his hat, and took some of the bundled paper from Orgle, "And thank you again for your help."

She watched them disappear as Crowley took them back Upstairs.

"Please take these back to the Archives and re-file them, Orgle," she instructed, indicating the large pile that he'd fetched.

"Right away, Librarian Verael." She nodded approvingly; Orgle might not be the brightest branding iron in the fire, but he was polite and prompt and diligent, and had even made some effort to tidy himself up. His pelt contained the broken remains of several combs as evidence of attempted self-improvement.

When she was sure that he was gone and she was once again alone, she poured herself another cup of tea, pulled the plate of cookies towards herself, and pulled out a book from underneath a pile of scary-looking spreadsheets.

The cover featured a depiction of two chess pieces, the black king and the white king. The title of the tome was rendered in block lettering.

_**Sliver of Sunrise**_

She sighed happily, opened the book, and began to read.

* * *

><p>Reviews are the Books Of Dubious Literary Value Hurled Cheerfully Into The Furnace Of Life!<p> 


	16. Chapter 14

**...but first, we deal with some comments from The Denizens...**

_Hey, I own a copy of The Joy Of Socks!_

The book Dean was reading had nothing to do with knitting; he just let Sam think that it did so that he didn't have to drag his gigantic baby bro's fainted ass around.

_What is the Sunset Series?_

For those who did not pick up on the allusions: your ignorance does you credit...

The Sunset Series is a series of novels in the library of Hell. They were written by a demon who was born a Mormon, which explains the very tame nature of the language and erotic content (by Hellish standards). They document the developing relationship between a werewolf and a vampire, who are brought together by a human girl of mutual acquaintance. - they tear her to pieces and eat her, the 'Sunset' equivalent of a romantic dinner. The series divided all of Hell into two camps, those who loved it, and those who despised it. Crowley had it Bowdlerised, by the actual Bowdlers, and sent it Upstairs, where it was written as the 'Twilight' Series and is doing Hell's work by destroying the brains of women young and old. So the rumours are true. 'Twilight' is in fact the work of Hell.

_What are Sunset Ladies?_

Sunset Ladies are the Downstairs equivalents of Twilight Moms, senior she-demons who are screamingly infatuated with the books' protagonists, and ought to know better. Their male consorts mutter darkly about double standards, saying that if they formed a group calling themselves Sunset Gentlemen, and wittered on about how attractive they found the human girls to be, they'd be told they were creepy old men who were in Hell for a reason. Sunset Ladies can be further divided into Team Edmond and Team Jason. Vampires who find themselves sent to Hell are tortured by being pursued by screaming female demons who demand to be bitten and chase them up trees, and werewolves who go to Hell find themselves tormented by screaming female demons who demand to be bitten and constantly tear their quarry's shirts off and fondle their abs.

In an alternative history, the Lord of Hell read the first three pages of the first book, snorted with laughter, and tossed it aside, declaring it absolute trash. His brother devoured all the novels as soon as they were written, and produced a prolific number of AU fanfics, in which the human girl paired up with the vampire or the werewolf, or sometimes both at once. After the release of each new book, he also went through phases of following the Dominicana around, attempting to persuade her to take her shirt off – eventually she retaliated by grabbing him and humping his leg until he had a very nasty abrasion and Sam had to swat her on the nose with a rolled-up newspaper to make her stop.

_Why is the sky blue?_

Due to Rayleigh scattering. Shorter wavelength blue light gets scattered around more.

_Why is grass green?_

Because of the chlorophyll in the chloroplasts.

_Why does Hellhound flatulence smell like lavender?_

Sam has a theory on that. He thinks that it might be because dog farts fall into the category of Truly Awful Smells. To a demon's senses, lavender is pretty disgusting. And anybody who has read ''Hot Stuff' will know why, in the Jimiverse, Dean hates lavender.

Otherwise, it's probably because of quantum.

_Why why why why why why why why?_

Stop channelling The Eight Year Old Sam Winchester Within at once, and sit down and read quietly.

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 14<strong>

They dumped the reams of photocopied documents on the living room table.

"Bobby Singer," growled Crowley, opening his briefcase and pouring himself a generous drink, "Don't you dare ever do anything like that ever again! You ever give me a fright like that again, and I swear, I will spank you myself, though it would break my heart."

"I'm inclined to side with His Infernal Majesty on this, except for the spanking thing," humphed Sam, "You scared the crap out of us, disappearing like that!"

"What were you thinking, Bobby?" demanded Dean. "We thought you'd been summoned to explain yourself!"

"All right, ladies, loosen your corsets and take some deep breaths before you all swoon," Bobby rolled his eyes. "We weren't havin' any luck, so I thought I'd ask the librarian. It seemed like the only sensible thing to do. Good thing, too. We were in Fiction."

"But... how did you do it?" Crowley burst out, "How did you get the Senior Librarian to talk to you, without turning you into an interesting little Rorschach type splodge on her desk blotter?"

"I am a Man of Knowledge," intoned Bobby, "With great wisdom in such matters. I used a powerful incantation, with some magic words of great potency."

"Bobby, you have to write it down for me, love," pleaded Crowley, "The things I could achieve Downstairs with a spell like that..."

"Oh, I'll just tell you," Bobby told him dismissively. "It goes like this. 'Please... Thank You'." Crowley shot him a baleful look. "You'd be amazed how far some manners can get you," Bobby sniffed.

"But we thought you'd fried in that room!" Dean yelped. "The heat, the flash..."

"Well, it's a pretty big machine," Bobby told them, "It did all this in one hit."

"The photocopier," breathed Crowley, "There are _Archdukes_ who are not allowed to use the photocopier. _I'm_ not allowed to use the photocopier! You have to fill in a form, indicating what you want to copy, and how many pages it is, and leave it in the 'COPY JOBS' tray for a Library Monitor to do it..."

"She says she tried an honour system, but the users never refilled it when the paper or toner ran out," Bobby shrugged, "And they photocopied their own asses with alarming frequency."

Crowley looked thoughtful. "You know, that explains something," he mused, "Some of the demons whisper about The Line-Up In The Library. It happened before I took over. Apparently, several fairly senior members of the Hierarchy were summoned to the library to explain themselves, and they came out walking funny and looking decidedly uncomfortable and never talked about it... Bobby is that what I think it is?"

Bobby was taking something out of his pocket. "Oh, this?" he waggled the bunch of key-like items. "Very generous of her, really."

"Verael gave you your own key-counter for the photocopier?" Crowley squeaked in a combination of astonishment, disbelief and seething covetousness.

"On the proviso that I keep it safe," Bobby explained. "This one's for the colour copier, so long as I only use it when I really need to get exact details on some picture, this one's for the laminator, and this one's for the binding machine..."

Crowley's knees wobbled, and he sat down heavily. "Laminator," he stumbled, "Binding machine..." His face blanched, and his mouth gaped, as he displayed symptoms of Document Processing Envy.

"I didn't bother with all this, of course," Bobby waved, "But we are now in possession of some of the older admin records of the Pit..."

"I didn't even know that we had a colour copier," Crowley whispered, "I've just been getting Orgle to colour things in with pencils..."

"So, I'll put on a pot o' coffee, and we might as well get started," Bobby finished. "Oh, here," he pulled some pens from another pocket, "Verael gave me the combination to the stationery cupboard, so I grabbed these, they're highlighters that'll change colour depending on what you find, so, everybody grab a pile o' paper, and start... Crowley?"

Already in the throes of Document Processing Envy, Crowley suffered a complicating attack of Acute Onset Stationery Access Jealousy, and fainted.

**...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... **

It was a hard slog. There was ream after ream of documentation, some of it written in such archaic script or language that it was difficult to read. Crowley wasn't a lot of help; he kept casting covetous glances at Bobby's set of keying devices, and muttering darkly and resentfully.

"You must've done something," he mused sullenly, eyeing the library keys like a spoiled child staring at a bag of candy given to another kid, "You must've done something, because I have to account for every bloody staple, and she won't let me have a new glue stick until I show her the worn down stub of the old one, it's not fair, I bet you sold your soul, and I'll bet you slipped her a bit of tongue action..."

"Stop covetin' and keep readin'," instructed Bobby without bothering to look up. "If I didn't know better," he'd frowned, "I'd think this looks like a travel itinerary."

"Here, let me see," Crowley took the itemised list. "Oh, this is the documentation from one of Lucifer's trips to Jahannam."

Sam looked up. "Lucifer went on... _vacation_? To Islamic Hell?"

"Oh, yes," Crowley said, "He used to go skiing in Zamhareer, with Iblis. Whizzing down mountains of the frozen bodies of the wailing Damned all day, then partying at the apres-ski all night. They'd sit in the jacuzzi, drink schnapps, and bitch about their families. I've seen some of the home movies."

"I thought Islam forbade alcohol," mentioned Bobby.

"It does," Crowley nodded, "But, hello? Iblis? Fallen Jinn, Overlord of their Hell? He likes toasted ham sandwiches, too," the demon went on. "And roast pork, with all the trimmings. He used to visit here, and Lucifer would make sure there was bacon for him at breakfast every morning. He still sends postcards, since Lucifer got himself stuck in the Cage. We poke them under the door. From time to time, Himself writes one and pokes it out, and we send it back to Iblis." Crowley smiled wistfully. "The old Jinn actually sent him a cake with a file in it. Now, that's a real friend. Nobody would send me a cake with a file in it. A very flat and very poisonous snake, perhaps..."

"What was he supposed to do?" asked Dean. "File his way out of the Cage?"

"It didn't work," shrugged Crowley. "Iblis sends files with cakes in them, these days."

"How do you get them into the Cage?" Sam asked, wondering if he had any memories of cake hidden away somewhere.

"Under the door," Crowley replied, "He sends layer cakes, so we disassemble them, and slide them under there, one piece at a time, on bits of cling wrap."

"And I thought that people were crazy," muttered Dean, "Turns out, demons are nuts too... What's this one? It's in Greek."

Bobby took the docket from him. "It's in ancient Greek," he confirmed, frowning as he scanned the text. "Looks like another itinerary," he explained, "Did Lucifer travel to Tartarus as well?"

"On a number of occasions, apparently," Crowley replied, "He and Hades would go water-skiing on the Styx – Charon used to complain, apparently, because his boat was swamped by their wake on a number of occasions. Hades and Persephone visited here, too; she was a very keen ice-skater, used to carve up the Cocytus when it froze over. She was a wonderful cook, too, by all accounts. Did a thing called _gyros_. You take a Damned soul, stuff it with rosemary and garlic, and roast it whole on a spit. Then smash all the crockery afterwards. It sounds wonderful." Crowley sighed. "She still sends him baklava, and tsoureki sweet bread every Easter, although we have to pull the dyed egg off the top before we shove it under the door..."

"Nice to know that one Lord of Hell understood the importance of down time, I guess," shrugged Dean.

" 'Greetings from Niflheim!," read Sam, scanning down another document. "Oh," he muttered, his face colouring slightly, "This is a bit... racy."

"Let me see!" Dean snatched the paper from his brother. "Wow," his eyebrows rose, "Looks like Lucifer made quite an impression on his dirty weekends with some chick named Hel. 'My bed is never as warm as it is when you roll in my bearskins'," he read breathily, " 'And the thought of your prowess makes me sigh and moan in the night. Garmr sends you big kisses, too, and declares you favoured Prince of Darkness'." Dean looked up eagerly. "Who's Garmr?" he asked with a leer, "Her sister?"

"Her dog," scowled Bobby, "Garmr, or Rag, is her companion guard dog."

"You know the type," confided Crowley, "If her dog doesn't like you, you don't have a chance. Approved of Lucifer, though. Left dog hair all over the Cloak of State when they visited. Of course, Her Ladyship scared the crap out of the Hierarchy ladies; put her feet on the table after dinner, threw bones to her dog, and punched the ones she didn't like. She sends him pancakes, and single layer tortes, you know. And extremely suggestive letters – some of the envelopes scorch the door on the way through. Sometimes we can hear him read select passages to Michael," Crowley smirked. "From the sounds of the arguments, it really grosses Golden Boy out. Sometimes, it's worse than the 'Sunset' books."

"Is this one in Sanskrit?" asked Sam, picking up another.

"Looks like it," agreed Bobby. "Let's see... 'From the desk of Lord Yama, to His Infernal Grace, Lucifer. My Dear Friend, I was so sorry that your visit to us was cut short, before you had a chance to join us for some purging of the sinful. The oil vats are particularly hot at this time of year. I hope that this letter finds you in much better health, and completely recovered from your truly spectacular bout of gastric distress. Chitragupta also sends his best wishes, and some onion and garlic roti that he prepared himself, which he says his ayah used to feed him when he was a boy and feeding poorly. Some of the devas also prepared you some jalebis, since you enjoyed them so much while you were here'..."

"Oh dear, Himself's episode of Naraka Belly is still talked about by some of the Hierarchy," Crowley sniggered, "Went through several acres of endangered rainforest in toilet paper, I'm told."

"And the roti and the jalebis?" asked Dean.

"Under the door," replied Crowley, "We hear Michael complaining about the smell sometimes, so apparently Indian food still has unfortunate effects on Lucifer..."

"Here's more in Greek," mused Sam. "It's amazing that Lucifer had any time to spend on plotting to bring down Heaven."

"Hang on, hang on," Crowley grabbed the piece of paper Sam held, "This lot has receipts stapled to them."

"What does that signify?" asked Bobby, "That he was going to claim it back on his tax?"

"Something similar," Crowley frowned, "And this one is on company stationery, too – 'Hades Inc.' – not the stuff Hades used for his personal correspondence, with the little border of cute cavorting catamites capering around the edge."

Bobby took the sheaf of documents. "This is a contract of some sort," he said. "Talks about 'breeder's terms', and 'fit for purpose'..."

"This looks like... is this a family tree?" asked Sam, peering at another document.

Bobby peered over his shoulder. "Not a family tree, exactly," he said, recognition on his face, "That's a pedigree." He shuffled through some more paper. "Dockets. Lists. Here, this is a recipe for BARF."

"Huh?" Dean's eyes crossed. "A recipe for... oh, God, I know that some of those Greek gods were pervs, but, dude, a recipe for barf?"

"Not barf, BARF," corrected Bobby. "Biologically Appropriate Raw Food. And if I don't miss my guess, this one is for very young dogs. With what look like instructions for weaning. 'When our pups leave, they are accustomed to eating a solid diet; once they go home with you, it is appropriate to start mixing finely ground minced souls into their food. They will grow quickly, but it is important that they do not put on too much weight too quickly, so don't let them have too much terror, no matter how much they roll their big sad eyes at you!'." He turned the page. "Gentlemen," he smiled, "I believe we have hit ore." He turned another page, and began to read.

"Congratulations on adopting your Hellhounds into their new foreverhome! Remember, a Hellhound is for eternity, not just for the Apocalypse..."

* * *

><p>While checking the interwebs for the correct spelling of 'Garmr', I came across a picture of Hel and her hound, and said to myself, "That's Ronnie..."<p>

http**COLON SLASH SLASH** www**DOT** allposters**DOT** com**SLASH** -sp/Hel-Daughter-of-Loki-and-Goddess-of-the-Underworld-Posters_i1865400_.htm

Click on it to enlarge. She even has her dog with her. Just imagine that woman in jeans and a t-shirt reading 'I'm The Infidel Your Imam Warned You About'.

Reviews are the Delicious Treats sent by Infernal Friends from the Underworlds Of Life!


	17. Chapter 15

**Chapter 15**

"Are you telling me," began Crowley slowly, edging surreptitiously towards Bobby's cluster of keys, "That the Hellhounds were... adopted from an animal shelter somewhere in Hades?"

"Not just adopted," replied Bobby, smacking Crowley smartly across the knuckles while studying the pedigree document, "Bred. Look, here, their pedigree includes the Cwn Annwn, and Katmir the Guardian. Cerbura, too, and Garmr, and Orthrus..."

"So, you take a whole bunch of mythological dogs, who sound more like characters who run around in a Dungeons and Dragons book wearing chainmail bikinis, and somehow, you get Hellhounds," Dean didn't sound convinced.

"They're dogs from mythology," Sam rolled his eyes, "Dogs that have a guarding or hunting role." He peered at the document over Bobby's shoulder. "Er, is that who I think it is?" he asked, pointing to a name.

"Belisario," read Bobby, grinning, "I'm betting that's the Greek form of the name of Hell's Premier Pup." He shuffled through some more the documents. "Here they are," he confirmed, "Six litter brothers, and six litter sisters. First whelped, Belisario." He whistled. "Wow, twice the size of all the others at birth, too..."

"Hang on, hang on," Dean interrupted, "Are you telling me, that Hell's lead sled dog is his own ancestor? How the fuck does that work? I mean, unless there was an accident with a plutonium-powered DeLorean and a turkey baster or something..."

"Don't think so physically, ya idjit," humphed Bobby, "Time and location mean nothing to the denizens of many mythologies, including Hellhounds. A number of gods did it."

"Wow, that's... freaky," mused Dean, shuddering. "Travelling across time and space and supernatural realms, okay, even a Limey dork in a blue phone box can do that, but having sex with your grandmother? That's just freaky." He appeared to consider the matter further. "I mean, even if she was hot when she was younger, how could you do that? Knowing that she'd probably take a turn at changing your diaper later, it'd put you off your stroke..."

"Dean," warned Sam.

"No, seriously," Dean was adamant, "How could you possibly do Special Cuddles with a woman who was destined to wipe your ass, and knit you embarrassing sweaters for Christmas?"

"Dean," rumbled Bobby warningly.

"So, would that mean that if you killed yourself, you'd die? No, wait..."

"Dean," Sam tried again, with a shot of Bitchface #8™ (You Are Now Officially Talking Complete Shit, Dean).

"What about if you killed yourself after you went back, but _before_ you tapped Grandma? Would you, as in, You 2.0, still be born?" Dean was on a metaphysical roll. "And what would happen if your grandfather caught you? What if it broke up the relationship, and he remarried – would you have to have sex with that grandmother too, just to make sure?"

Bobby slapped him upside the head.

"So, where did the puppies actually come from?" Crowley wanted to know.

"Well," began Dean, "When a mummy dog and a daddy dog are very much in love, and married, they go to their kennel, and turn the lights off and have what we call Special Cuddles..."

"Refers here to _'whelps of Kerberos'_," translated Bobby, "By Rag, whelped of Kerberos. A.k.a. Cerberus."

"But... how?" Crowley persisted, giving Dean a scowl, "I mean, Cerberus, Guardian of Hades, by all accounts three-headed, very large, very grumpy, and very male..."

"Not by all accounts," pointed out Sam, "Cerberus has been depicted as having anywhere from one to fifty heads. Heraklitus stated that Cerberus had only one head, but was closely accompanied by two of his pups, and the drawing of a three-headed dog was a representation of their closeness. A tight-knit pack, as it were."

Dean looked confused. "Are you saying," he looked dubiously at Sam, "That Hellhounds are... asspuppies?"

Crowley considered that with a slightly bewildered expression. "Well," he said slowly, "The Greeks were quite enlightened about, er, That Sort Of Thing, informed consenting adults and all that..."

"It might explain why Hellhounds smell so bad," conceded Dean.

"Oh, God," Sam dropped his head into his hands. Jimi put a sympathetic paw on his knee, and whuffed reassuringly.

"Not necessarily," Bobby told him, "It's the gods thing again. Athena emerged from Zeus's head. They might've crawled out of his ears, for all we know. The point _is_," he glared at Dean, as the elder Winchester opened his mouth presumably to make some other unhelpful and distasteful observation about the procreative habits of mythological creatures, "The Hellhounds appear to have been bred for Lucifer, and delivered as young... creatures."

"I suppose it makes sense," mused Crowley. "Imagine you're Lucifer, newly Cast Down, and you look around your new realm, and discover that the utilities aren't even connected. No hot and cold running souls. You have to find a way to get the Damned from Topside to Downstairs. Trying to do it yourself, it's damned inefficient, if you'll pardon the pun, and I'm betting that any brothers and sisters that sided with you are all too busy sniping at each other about whose fault it is that Dad kicked them out of home, and as for demons, well, I can tell you from personal experience, they're extremely unreliable, and about as trustworthy as an Enron executive. Then you visit your friend, Hades, for a bit of therapeutic mutual griping about your fathers and your golden child brothers - oooh, he drove me nuts, why can't you be more like Michael/Zeus, yeah, I hear you, bro - and while you're putting the boat in the Styx and discussing how long the tow rope will be, you see his dog Cerberus, and the pups working with him, and you think 'That's a good idea', and later that night at dinner, you feel a damp chin land on your knee, and there's a big pair of eyes gazing adoringly up at you, waiting for you to drop a tidbit of Damned soul, or maybe a piece of tiropite, and over galaktobouriko and coffee you start to talk about working dogs..."

"It could've gone like that," conceded Bobby. "This has the hallmarks of attempting to establish a breed for a purpose. You take animals that have known traits and instincts, and you breed the best of them, then use those instincts as the basis to train them for the job you want them to do. It's what humans have done with every breed, from lap dogs, to gun dogs, to herding dogs, to Hunting dogs."

"So, say he established the breed," said Sam, "How did they grow up to be Hellhounds?"

"That is what we have to figure out," Bobby replied. "Since they're not doin' their job properly, I'd say that they had to be trained to it. Rag was a guard dog and companion to Hel. Cerberus – and possibly pups – guarded the gates of Hades. They got some ancestors that hunted down the souls of evil-doers – the Hounds of Annwn and the Wild Hunt, see – but their immediate blood has the primary purpose of protecting the living - makin' sure that the dead don't trouble them. It's a bit of a jump from that, to actually fetching Damned souls." He shuffled further into the ream of paper in front of him. "If there's anything, it'll be in here," he told them, "So everybody grab another chunk, and start lookin'. And you leave those alone," he finished, thwacking Crowley's hand briskly with the handle of a handy silver letter-opener, eliciting a yelp as His Infernal Majesty made another grab for the copier keys, "Or I'll put you in a Devil's Trap, call Andrew, put him on speaker, and let him practise his Latin on you."

"That's harsh, Bobby, very harsh, and I'm hurt rather than angry," said Crowley in a small plaintive voice, rubbing his knuckles.

The archival material turned up some advice and instructions that were probably not going to turn up at a Dog Whisperer seminar any time soon.

"It is normal for the pups to be unsettled at first in their new home," read Bobby, "Ensure that their cavern is warm. Tucking a few anguished Damned under their blankets is a time-honoured trick, as the hopeless moaning is soothing to them..."

"They will be active and curious," Sam peered at another page, "So make sure they have plenty of sinners to chew on, especially as their adult teeth come in, otherwise they may well start on your racks! Give them plenty of toys that make them think; heads with the brains still inside are good for keeping them occupied, as they will have to work to get the goodies out..."

"Proper nutrition is important for growing Infernal Beasts," Crowley relayed, "So make sure they have a balanced intake of liars, cheats, thieves and philanderers. Keep gluttons to a minimum; the pups will love them, but they are usually high in fat and should be reserved as occasional treats..."

"All mythological dogs love to play fetching games," Dean read aloud. "A craven Damned will make an irresistible tug toy! Cutting out its tongue will prevent it from making anything except very interesting wailing noises. Smearing it with blood will provoke their bloodlust. Encourage them to chase it; the Damned should have the tendons in one leg cut for very young animals, to allow them to catch it. You can join in the fun, and lead the chase! Get creative: poke the Damned with a pointy stick to make it jump and squeal, or shove raw offal into every available orifice..."

"Hellhounds should never be allowed to eat chocolatiers," intoned Bobby, "As this will make them unwell. Resist the temptation to drop them little treats from the rack if you are torturing one. You can safely feed them pieces of carob farmer instead..."

Sam shuffled through his pile of paper. "There's more here about looking after them," he noted, "But nothing about actually training them." He looked thoughtful. "I suppose that they're in essence dogs," he mused, "And they're reverting to dog-like behaviour. Maybe you get a training dumbell, and tie pieces of Damned soul to it to teach them to fetch..."

"Impossible to say," sighed Bobby, scanning through his pile of photocopies, "And that doesn't explain how you'd teach a whole pack of 'em to do it as individuals. There's more than twelve Hellhounds now, so presumably they've bred." He raised an eyebrow at Crowley.

"Well, there are definitely females as well as males," the demon confirmed, "As evidenced by my current companion..." he glanced around, frowned, and whistled. Nothing happened. "Oh, no," he moaned, "I don't believe it, another one has done a runner!" He turned a despairing face on Bobby. "What are we going to do?" he practically wailed. He poured himself another drink, looked at the glass, then necked the bottle.

"WWCMD?" pronounced Dean. "What Would Cesar Millan Do? Or maybe we could get Victoria Stilwell, she's kinda hot, in those outfits she wears?" He leered. "She can snap a lead on my collar and make me sit up and beg any time..."

"Dean!" snapped Sam with a glare of Bitchface #3™ (I Wish You'd Let Your Upstairs Brain Drive More Often).

"These documents are the sort of thing that a serious breeder sends home with new pups," Bobby commented. "And serious breeders are always concerned with the welfare of the animals they breed, long after they've left the kennel. In case of problems, it's quite common to go back to the breeder to ask for advice."

"What?" chorused the Winchesters, as their eyebrows headed north.

Crowley sprayed a mouthful of expensive single malt across the rug. "I think I might need a new meatsuit," spluttered the King of Hell. "The ears on this one are clearly faulty, because for a moment there, I thought I heard you suggest that we pay a visit to Hades. Ha ha. Your sense of humour is just one of the things I love about you, Bobby."

"You heard right," scowled Bobby, "He strikes me as the type who takes his dogs very seriously. So unless you think shoving notes under the door into the Cage would get any sensible response, I think it's our only shot. So you," he jabbed a finger at Crowley, "Get on Downstairs, and organise it."

"What? What? How?" asked Crowley, sounding panicked. "I've never been to Hades before. I've never met him! He's Lucifer's friend! How am I supposed to invite myself to see him?"

"Set up an appointment," suggested Sam. "Send a meeting request in Outlook."

" 'Friend' him on FaceSpace," added Dean.

"I don't care how you do it, but do it," Bobby snapped, waggling his cell, "Or it's Latin 101 for you, pal."

"I don't know what I've ever done to deserve this," sighed Crowley glumly.

"Hmmmm, well, let's see," mused Dean, tapping his chin, "It probably started officially when you made your deal for three extra inches, but I'm guessing that you were a total asshole before then and would've been headed for the Pit anyway..."

"I suppose I can go through the Filofax and find his details," Crowley managed to look hurt. "But if all he does is laugh at me, I'll be getting off lightly."

"Good. Now, don't let the door bang your ass on the way out," Bobby returned to perusing the paperwork.

"Right. Right. I'll be going, then." He glanced at the table. "Er, Bobby," Crowley went on in a wheedling tone, "You won't actually be using those, and I've got some things I'd like to copy in colour, so if you don't mind..."

"Exorzissimissi tee, omnees immundity spirity," Bobby practically sang, "Omnees satanicy protestings, omni-womny incursions inferny adver-SAIR-eee-um..."

"Aaaaargh!" yelped Crowley, disappearing.

"That's interesting," noted Sam, "Usually, the rite has to be word-perfect, or it doesn't work, but apparently if it's done badly enough, some demons will flee anyway..."

"I suspect that only works if that demon has had the fear of unlearned werewolf put into him," chortled Bobby.

"Er, Bobby," Dean said hesitantly, nodding towards the dogs on the rug.

The three dogs.

"Oh dear," mused Bobby, taking in the newcomer, a fine-boned Rottweiler bitch with a happy face, flopped contentedly onto the rug with Jimi and Janis...

**...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... **

Bobby thought about adopting the newcomer – she was friendly, and got along well with his other dogs – but two days later, she made a decision for herself. A neighbour came over to return a bolt extractor; he and the dog took an instant shine to each other. When Bobby saw the hope in his neighbour's eyes as he explained that she was actually a stray who'd wandered in, he knew she'd found herself a happy home.

Her new family named her Lottie, and she took to sneaking out of her bed in the laundry and sleeping in their youngest child's room – how she got herself through two shut doors was a mystery. At first, she was gently and firmly returned to her own bed, but when the child's nightmares stopped, and then she raised the alarm when he suffered what could have been a fatal asthma attack in the middle of the night, they moved her blankets into his room.

* * *

><p>The treat ball was supposed to keep my dog occupied for hours. It didn't. She chased it around for a few minutes, then picked it up, dropped it on her trampoline bed, then rolled it back and forth with her nose until all the treats came out and collected in a convenient pile in the middle of it. It's a fine line between smart and smartarse.<p>

Reviews are the Adorable Gamboling Hellhound Puppies Gnawing on the Damned Soul Tug-Toys of Life!


	18. Chapter 16

The reviews are playing up again. That's it. That's what I'm going to keep telling myself. *sniff sniff*.

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 16<strong>

A few days went past. It wasn't that Bobby didn't trust Crowley... Well, technically, yeah, he _didn't_ trust Crowley, and was keeping a shotgun loaded with Mark IV experimental anti-demon rounds surreptitiously handy at all times. (In fact, he'd had an idea for Mark V, and had set Sam on a procurement errand that had seen the younger Winchester pull a 'you gotta be shitting me' face, but to his credit the boy had set to it right away.) He did trust Crowley's highly developed sense of self-preservation to prompt the demon to try to arrange a meeting with the Ruler of the Aegean Underworld, but, as he'd learned a long time ago, it never hurt to have a back-up plan.

It would mean trying something that he wasn't certain was even possible, but improvisation could often be effective enough, and the worst that could happen was that it wouldn't work.

Well, no, actually, the worst that could happen would be that it would backfire horribly and tear a hole in the physico-temporal fabric of reality, or call into being some unspeakable horror from the Pit that would rampage across the country devouring people, or maybe just scorch him to an amusingly posed Halloween decoration on the spot, but that wasn't the _point_. What he mean was, the worst that could happen was that he wouldn't achieve what he wanted to. He was pretty sure he could avoid the whole inadvertent working of a spell. After all, he wasn't Dean with a doily on his head...

So while Dean and Sam were washing the Impala, he dug out the ugliest occult artefact goblet he could find, sprinkled in some thyme and cinnamon, then cut his hand and dripped some blood into it. As an afterthought, he dropped in a postage stamp too.

He fetched himself a beer, sat down, gazed into the goblet, and cleared his throat.

"Now I sit me down with beer,  
>I hope I get through loud and clear.<br>I ask for help from you, Verael  
>For Crowley's bound, I fear, to fail.<p>

He's not a god, he's just a demon,  
>Slimy, vicious, evil, schemin'.<br>Hades may not clap with glee,  
>And ask him does he water-ski,<p>

But we must find a way to train  
>The Hounds to do their job again.<br>Since Hades bred 'em, he might know  
>Exactly how that's s'posed to go.<p>

Having met you, I surmise  
>You're someone who can organise,<br>And get things done and sort things out  
>Without the need to stamp or shout,<p>

Behind the crowd, behind the throne,  
>When power aint enough alone.<br>And so I send this note, entreating  
>You to help set up a meeting.<p>

Crowley doesn't have to know.  
>Let him think he runs the show,<br>But set it up, behind the scene –  
>Perhaps you know Pallas Athene?<p>

It's vital to both Earth and Hell  
>That this is fixed and all is well.<br>I'd be so grateful for your succour,  
>Even to help that little... idjit."<p>

He dropped a match into the goblet.

"And if before it's fixed I die,  
>I'll tell Danael that you said 'Hi'."<p>

There was a deep crimson flare, and the flame flickered out.

There was no hole in the space-time continuum, no ghastly creatures from dimensions man ought not wot of, and all his flesh remained firmly attached to his bones, but he hoped that his d-mail would actually get through. At the sound of raised voices, he went to referee the argument that had broken out outside.

**...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... **

"And the two of you can stop yer sulkin'," he told the Winchesters later, as they sat in the kitchen poking at dinner with sullen expressions. "If you hadn't behaved like four-year-olds, I wouldn't've had to treat you like four-year-olds."

"I'm cold," muttered Sam, shivering slightly. "No fair making me get undressed outside."

"You were soakin' wet, and I was not having your gigantic ass drippin' dirty water all through the house," frowned Bobby.

"It's all right for you," Dean snarled murderously, as Sam continued to grizzle unhappily, "At least you got to keep your shorts on."

"No garment that soaked in used engine oil was ever gonna cross the doorstep, son," Bobby told him firmly, "Even if it meant you pink-panthering your way upstairs."

"Dean tipped the bucket over me!" Sam huffed.

"Sam tipped the old oil down my pants!" Dean glared at his brother.

"Only after you shoved the hose down mine!" Sam shot back. "That water was really, really cold..."

"It's not like there's anything down there for it to affect, Francis," Dean told him, "It's all long since shrivelled away from lack of exercise."

"I was so sure that it would hardly take you any time at all to rub all that oil in, you're such an expert jerk-off," Sam snapped.

"Just once," Bobby sighed, "Just once, I would like to make it all the way through a day without you ladies pokin' each other with your hat pins."

Dean was quite possibly about to say something else uncomplimentary about his brother's hair, music, clothes or genitals when there was a small _fwop _of displaced air, and Crowley stood grinning at them.

"You'll never guess what happened!" he declared.

"The Hierarchy has sentenced you to death. by uns-uns, which is the opposite of snu-snu?" said Dean.

"Hell has undergone a catastrophic implosion, and you're the last demon left, and you've come to us to beg for a merciful death?" said Sam.

"You've been diagnosed with malignant cancer of the karma, and it's inoperable?" said Bobby.

"I am cut by your snideness," sighed Crowley, "Since I have, in fact, something helpful to report." He waved a Post-It note. "Hades has invited the Ruler of Hell to visit him, and update him on how the Hellhounds are doing!" he explained. "You can come along too," he added generously, "Since it was your idea."

"Humans can't just walk into the Underworld," Sam pointed out.

"They can if they take their amulets," Bobby told him, "But how will you explain a human entourage to Hades? Guests? Servants? Consultants?"

Crowley cocked his head. "I'll tell him you're... pets," he decided, "If he's so keen on dogs, he's bound to understand that."

"Woof frigging woof," muttered Dean, "I have this sudden urge to piss on your leg."

"Then I shall be sure to carry a rolled-up newspaper with me at all times," smiled Crowley, "And a little spray bottle of water, which, incidentally, is suggested as a non-abusive way of showing dogs that their behaviour is not acceptable." He peered at Dean. "Perhaps a super-soaker might be in order to get the message through your thick skull. No, no, don't get up, I shall see myself out," he finished. "See you bright and early tomorrow, fellas." Crowley disappeared...

**...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... **

But didn't actually go that far. No further than the living room.

He heard the noises of Dean's griping, Sam's bitching and Bobby's idjiting as his eyes travelled around the dim room. It was in here, he could practically smell it, and once he had it, the document processing equipment of Hell would be his, all his, bwahahahaha...

A quiet whuff from the sofa drew his attention.

Janis the half-Hellhound sat there, watching him serenely with big brown eyes, resting her muzzle on her paws.

Between which sat Bobby's cluster of keying devices.

Bobby found the sulphur on the rug later when he checked the wards before bed, and chuckled to himself.

**...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... **

"I can't speak Greek," said Sam worriedly, "I can read it, but I can't speak it. Beyond 'Hello', 'Please', 'Thank-you' and 'What's that strange curly tentacley thing poking out of the salad?', I'm useless."

"It's all about perceptions, Bullwinkle," Crowley rolled his eyes, "This bloke is a god. If he wants to, he'll make himself understood."

"Huh," mused Dean. "The Greek pantheon had the universal translator before Star Trek." He suddenly looked anxious. "Sam, go and change your shirt," he instructed, "You are not going if you're wearing a red shirt..."

"Whatever you did in a previous life to deserve these two, Bobby, you put me to shame," remarked Crowley, handing a small box to the old Hunter. "Here, hold this."

"What is it?" asked Bobby, examining the small box.

"Think of it as a GPS," Crowley replied, "I've never been to Hades before. So, are we all ready?"

Reality went _glerp_, and did that strange accelerated-elevator-ride thing again...

_glerp_

"This doesn't look very... Greek," suggested Sam uncertainly, taking in the snow-dusted forest around them, as Crowley briefly took the small iridescent cube from Bobby and shook it. "And neither does he," he added, pointing to an elderly man who appeared to be practising some sword drill in a clearing.

"Maybe we should ask him where we are," suggested Dean.

"There's no need," snapped Crowley, "I know what I'm doing..."

"So, where are we?" asked Bobby.

"On the way to Hades," Crowley answered firmly.

"Via...?" prompted Sam.

"Oh, fine, fine," humphed Crowley, "I'll ask our friend in the dress over there where we are. Oi, you with the pig-sticker," he began, striding towards the old man, "Where the bloody hell are we?"

He stopped dead when the old man paused, turned, and gazed at him down his extremely long nose with a glare that radiated power. His face wore an expression of annoyance that you really don't want to see on someone who is holding a sword.

"_Nan __ja_?" he snapped at the suddenly tongue-tied King of Hell.

"Shut up, ya idjit," muttered Bobby, pushing Crowley out of the way. He bowed deeply to the old man. "_Sumimasen, Sojobo-sama, shitsure shimasu, gomen nasai_," he apologised, "_Demo, michi o mayotte imasu..."_

Crowley and the Winchesters watched as Bobby conversed with the old man, who smiled, and nodded, and pointed. Bobby bowed again and backed away as the old man resumed his practice.

"We're too far east," Bobby said, glaring at Crowley, "And next time you decide to insult Lord Sojobo, King of Japan's Tengu demons, I'll let him chop your head off. _Hetakuso_."

_glerp_

"More snow. Does it usually snow in Hades?" asked Dean, as Crowley peered at the cube again.

"And how many viking long-houses do they have?" asked Sam.

Bobby was already asking for instructions from a tall muscular blonde man, who smiled, and pointed with a very large hammer.

"We've overshot, and now we're too far north," he relayed.

_glerp_

"That doesn't look like Greek architecture," stated Dean. "Too big, and too... pointy."

"Well, they did have a long period of Hellenic rule," Sam pointed out.

Bobby was in earnest conversation with a jackal-headed figure. "Too far south," he reported.

_glerp_

A cheerful figure with blue skin paused in his dancing, and pointed with the flute in one of his many hands.

"I said _south_," reported Bobby, "We're too far east again!"

_glerp_

A rotund, smiling man, sitting under a fig tree in the lotus pose, broke off his meditations to chat briefly, point, and offer his good wishes for a safe journey.

"Look, the bloody thing said take the second exit, so I took the second exit..."

_glerp_

The fiendishly ugly old woman brought the giant mortar she was riding through the air to a stop, and pointed with the broom she dragged behind her.

"You have no idea how to program that thing, do you? Next time, get Orgle to do it for you, ya idjit."

_glerp_

The giant rainbow serpent lifted the tip of its tail from the lake it was creating, and pointed.

"That's it, I'm callin' a responsible adult... Hello, Verael? Yeah, it's Bobby. Oh, they're very safe, I left 'em with my dog, he won't get near 'em, not without losing a limb or two, heh heh... Look we've hit a bit of a problem... heh heh, how did you guess? Uh huh... okay, well, Ngalyod tells me that we're standing in the middle of what will be Australia, by the time he finishes it..."

_glerp_

Some way up the bank of the river, the wide gap in the rock face made a natural gateway.

"I don't see anybody," commented Sam.

Dean was looking down at his boots. "Does anybody else feel that?" he asked. They all looked at their feet.

Rhythmic vibrations were travelling through the ground. And getting stronger.

"Er, this isn't going to be a Jurassic Park moment, is it?" asked Dean uncertainly, "Because if a frigging T-Rex pops out through that gap, I can't guarantee that I can stop myself from running..."

"I don't think it's, er, biped," said Sam, "Listen." The sound was travelling through the air as well, to reach their ears. "It's getting louder..."

_galumph galumph galumph galumph galumph galumph_

"...Which presumably means it's getting closer..."

_galumph galumph galumph GALUMPH GALUMPH GALUMPH_ **GALUMPH**

A giant dog, resembling a Molosser or Mastiff breed the size of a Clydesdae horse, shot out of the gap in the rock, woofing excitedly. Two smaller dogs, no bigger than Welsh ponies, followed. Jimi shot forward, dropped into a play-bow, and woofed back. One of the smaller dogs bounded over to Crowley, and began to kiss him with a tongue like a very large, very pink, very friendly, and very drooly slug.

"Aaaaaaargh! Aaaaaaargh!" went the King of Hell, trying to fend off the affections of the giant hound, while Jimi circled excitedly around the feet of the largest one, who yapped and nipped good-naturedly at his tail. "Get it off meeee! Oh, bugger, will you look at that? That tie was a Carl Franco seven-fold job! Do you have any idea how expensive they are, you disgustingly leaky mutt?" The other smaller dog approached Bobby, tail wagging furiously, and rolled over in the universal canine appeal for a belly rub.

"Ai, ai, ENOUGH!" They heard a voice emerge from the gap. A tall man in a dark formal-looking tunic called to the dogs. "Kerberos! Enough!" The dogs left off and returned to their master, who smiled when he caught sight of Sam.

"Welcome!" he smiled, striding over and grasping Sam by the forearm, "Welcome to my home and my realm!"

* * *

><p>I am in mourning - my very favourite bargain shop, one of those poky little places run by an Asian family that's full of all sorts of stuff and always meticulously arranged that sells things very cheaply and indeed stocks items that you never knew you needed until you saw it - burned down. It's gone. Completely gutted. Mr Dong's amazing array of unidentifiable but utterly indispensible kitchen utensils, bathroom accessories and stationery of dubious origin is gone. I'm devastated. I'm in shock. I'm in denial. Where am I going to browse for cheap useless tat with hilarious labels in Engrish now? This is terrible. As a sign of respect, I will be wearing black undies all week.<p>

Please send me reviews, that will help to cheer me up. *bottom lip wobbles perilously* Because Reviews are the Amazing Unidentifiable Gardening Implements in the Bargain Shop Of Life! WAAAAAAAAAAAH!


	19. Chapter 17

**Chapter 17**

"Er, hello," Sam returned the greeting with some bewilderment, "Um, thank you for agreeing to receive us, Lord Hades."

"The Oracle had told us all about you, Lord Samuel," Hades smiled. "And you must be his brother," Hades continued, greeting Dean, "Tell me, is it true that you seduce your women on the large yellow inflatable bladder?"

"Any time, any place, is my motto," grinned Dean.

"And who is this?" Hades continued politely, turning to Bobby.

"This is Bobby, and he's, er, well, he's pretty damned close to our father," replied Sam, as Bobby removed his hat.

"A pleasure to meet a Man of Knowledge," said Hades, with a dignified incline of his head. "Verael said that you were the one I should speak to," he went on candidly, "Regarding your little problem." The god's eyes strayed to Jimi, who broke off his game with Cerberus, and came running to meet a new person. "And who might this be?" he asked.

"This is Jimi," beamed Dean, as Jimi sat, whuffed, and offered a paw.

"What a fine animal," Hades went on, "He's one of Belisario's, isn't he? Look at that head, I'd know those lines anywhere." He patted Jimi. "I think I would like to discuss breeding prospects with you later. But now, you must be hungry, it's such a long way from your realm, Lord Samuel..."

"Yes, yes it is," growled Dean with a pointed glare at Crowley.

"Er, just Sam, please," said Sam uncertainly.

"Of course, of course, so, perhaps we can discuss your little problem while we dine. It's my wife," he rolled his eyes, "She's convinced that nobody outside of my realm eats properly. Well, except for Gautama of course, he's truly a fat and jolly individual, but he loves her dolmades. She was always trying to feed up Lucifer," he confided, "Said he looked far too thin and hungry. The pastries arrive regularly?"

"Er, yes," Sam assured him, "And they go under the door..."

"She will be pleased to hear that," Hades sighed. "It really was silly of him, to get himself stuck like that. Work out your argument with your brother, I said, I'm telling you as your friend that you need to work out your differences, because you never know, one day, your father might eat him, and he'll be gone." He glanced at Crowley. "I am so sorry for the mess that the dog made of your... pet," he said, pronouncing the last word with some distaste, "I shall arrange for the maids to sluice it down before you return..."

"Now just a minute!" stormed Crowley, "Don't you talk about me like that! I am Crowley, King of Hell, and Master of my domain!"

Dean began to laugh, and Sam kicked him. "This is not the time for _Seinfeld_ references!" he hissed.

Hades gave Crowley a look that suggested a cockroach had just stood up and declared with an assertive wave of its antennae that it was the new head of the Nobel selection committee. "But..." he looked confused, "But, you are a... demon." He looked to Sam for an explanation. "The Oracle saw you," he went on hesitantly, "The Boy King ascending the Red Throne, and his brother, the Elder who is Lesser... I thought you were here because you must have some difficulty in dealing with the wolf woman..."

"I did warn you, dear, several eons ago," a female voice chided in the same tone that women use when saying 'I did ask you to put the garbage out last night, now the truck won't be back for another week!' "She's been picking up alternative histories for quite some time. She writes columns for several trashy tabloid parchments; she probably mixed up her report to you with one of the more... colourful speculations destined for the _Aegean__Augur_." She was a woman in middle age, still very attractive. "Remember that debacle when they ran the story about Kali being pregnant – to Ganesh? Or the one about Odin getting around behind Freya's back?"

"But Odin does get around behind Freya's back," Hades pointed out reasonably.

"Yes, but not with Isis," she smiled. "It was clearly a complete fabrication. You know he can't stand the heat – that summer they visited us, he spent the whole time prostrate on a lounge, and turned as pink as a lobster. And she's allergic to ravens' feathers, and loathes beards on men."

"Gentlemen, allow me to introduce my wife, Persephone," Hades said, putting an arm around her.

"Sam, was it?" she asked, extending a hand, "And Dean? Bobby?" She peered at Crowley with some amusement. "And... Your Majesty." Dean and Hades made less-than-genuine attempts to stifle their chortles.

"But you are here about the dogs?" asked Hades, patting Jimi again.

"Definitely," confirmed Bobby.

"Then you can tell us all about it while we eat," said Persephone firmly.

"Seffy, darling..." Hades almost rolled his eyes again.

"They are our guests," she went on, sizing up Sam like a farmer giving a prized stock animal the once-over, "And this one at least could do with feeding up." She sighed. "You remind me of Lucifer," she said a little wistfully, "Always too busy to eat properly, it's a wonder he didn't fade away completely..."

Dean's eyes bugged. "_Sam_ needs feeding up?" he muttered incredulously as his brother flushed red under Persephone's scrutiny.

"It's a Greek thing," Bobby whispered back, "If you don't eat until you're fit to burst, they think you're sick or something."

The large airy villa in which the Aegean Underworld's rulers lived included a comfortable dining area, complete with hot and cold running servants, and a number of large dogs lounging around. Jimi enjoyed some happy growl-wrestling with one of the smaller ones, then flopped down among them.

"He appears to be making himself at home," observed Hades.

"That dog could make himself at home anywhere," Bobby told him, "And frequently does."

"It's the bloodline," Hades stated, "The Alpha's bloodline. The Alpha has to be at home and establish his dominance wherever he is." He poured himself some wine. "And having seen him, I must admit myself astonished that he has not challenged his sire yet. So," he turned to Crowley, a look of amusement still on his face, "King Crowley, Belisario will not answer to you, that much is clear just by looking at you – an upstart demon rising to rule Lucifer's realm only adds to my astonishment. Have you been having trouble with the wolf woman?"

"That's putting it mildly," Crowley scowled into his plate, as the Winchesters snorted with laughter, "The miserable cow doesn't even have the decency to be dead. And she ruined my tie."

"It's a long story, Lord Hades," sighed Bobby, "If Belisario, or Belisarius, is the key here, then I think the trouble might have started a number of years ago. Beginning with a prank, a change of name, and a couple of idjits deciding to derail an Apocalypse..."

**...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... **

It took some time, and several courses, to fill Hades in on how his friend had ended up stuck in the Cage with his brother Michael, how Dean had inadvertently summoned Belisarius and remodelled him into Jimi senior, how the offspring of Hell's Alpha Hellhound came to be roaming around with a couple of very mortal Hunters, and how Crowley had taken over administration of The Pit. Every so often Dean or Crowley interrupted to make snide comments on various things the other had done. Then there was a brief break when a seafood salad was brought to the table; Sam asked a question in perfect Greek, and the lord and lady and all the servants applauded him.

"It's octopus," Persephone told him, "Marinated in olive oil and lemon. Do try it, it will put meat on your bones and a shine on your scales, as my brother-in-law likes to say."

"Poseidon says that about all seafood, including seaweed," Hades told them, "He foists it on me every time I visit him. It's not bad, but it wouldn't be my first choice."

"Sojobo is very keen on it," Persephone commented, "Dear Sojo-chan, he showed me the most interesting thing you can do with rice and fish – you roll it all up, with seaweed on the outside instead of vine leaves..."

"It's not right, eating it like that," humphed Hades, "Fish should at least be cooked before you eat it, whatever Poseidon says."

"I hope you're listening to this, Sam," instructed Dean, digging into another helping of grilled lamb, "He's a god, and he knows what he's talking about. Raw fish is not food, the word for it is 'bait'."

Finally, Bobby explained how the Hellhounds were now abandoning their tasks, and finding themselves homes Topside as ordinary dogs.

.Hades was silent for a long moment. "So, you've thrown my friend into the Cage, with his brother, summoned away his lead dog, who has now gone to the Christian Elysian Fields, then rather than assume the Red Throne yourself, you let this... Crowley take over the running of Hell?" he summarised.

"Er, that's pretty much it, yeah," agreed Sam, quietly reaching for his Go-Home-In-A-Hurry amulet.

"Poor Lucifer," Persephone said wistfully, "I never was terribly fond of Michael. Self-righteous, pious to the point of smugness."

"I hear you there," noted Dean glumly. "Enough arrogance to power the world's politicians for several generations."

"That boy has some serious Daddy issues," stated Persephone. "A very annoying individual."

"It's the way he's so sure that he's right, and he doesn't care who gets hurt while he does whatever it takes," Dean said. Persephone nodded, and insisted that he take another helping of cheese pastry.

"He was just trying to do what he thought his father wanted," Hades admonished her gently, "And see where it's gotten him anyway." He looked hard at Sam. "Are you sure you won't reconsider stepping into the breach?" he asked earnestly. "I think that you would be very good at it."

"Now just a minute," Crowley snapped.

"That's kinda what worries me," Sam replied a bit sheepishly.

"I want to do what is best for the dogs," Hades went on, "And best for my friend, because he will find a way out, sooner or later, and I wouldn't be any sort of friend if I left his realm to be torn apart by ungrateful demons due to a lack of competent leadership."

"Hey!" yapped Crowley. "I'm sitting right here!"

"And how terribly effective you've been so far," observed Hades dryly. "I believe that I know what the problem is," he went on. "Working dogs need a handler; it's the nature of dogs, utterly fundamental to their very fabric. And they need a pack leader, an Alpha, to follow the directions of the handler, and set the example. Belisario was the original Alpha for Lucifer's litter, and their descendants. Now that Lucifer is no longer there, and there is no new Lord of the Hounds, and on top of that, the Alpha dog is gone, there is no reinforcement of discipline, and their working."

"So, doesn't a pack find a new leader?" asked Bobby.

"Hellhounds are... choosy," smiled Hades. "It takes careful breeding to produce an Alpha line, a bloodstock that can provide leaders to such a pack, just as it takes a certain bloodline to produce a handler who can control that Alpha dog. Belisario – Belisarius – was the Alpha dog. In order to find a new Alpha, you would have to look to his progeny." His eyes slid to Jimi, where the Winchesters' dog had taken the prime snoozing position at the end of the long sofa with the cushions. "If a new Alpha has not emerged by now, we can assume that no potential candidates are present... in Hell."

"Are you saying..." Sam followed Hades' line of sight, "That Jimi, Jimi junior, is... the heir to the pack of Hellhounds?"

Jimi rolled onto his back, panting happily, legs scrabbling in the air as he chased something in his sleep, and farted.

"Way to go King Jimi!" Dean smiled broadly.

"So, why are the Hellhounds running off and finding themselves human homes?" Sam asked.

"They are still following the example of their Alpha," Hades explained. "With Belisario – Jimi senior – gone, they are modelling themselves on their new dominant dog. Your Jimi. You are a pack, a family, with him, and he strikes me as a very happy dog. And you Hunt with him, you save people. Keeping the living safe is at the very core of what dogs like him are intended to do; it's not terribly surprising that they are seeking out human families, happy homes, and reverting to that fundamental work drive to keep their new 'packs' safe."

"Well, that's easy, then," Crowley said with relief, "I just have to take the Winchesters' mutt back to Hell with me, and..."

"Think real careful about what you say next," suggested Bobby, sawn-off shotgun appearing in his hand from nowhere, "Because I'm loaded with Mark IV rounds, and that dog aint goin' anywhere with you."

"But you abducted his dad!" exclaimed Crowley, "You stole him from Hell! You stole him from me! If you won't give the original back, I should at least get his sprog..."

"It won't do you any good, I'm afraid," Hades appeared to be smiling at Crowley's outrage, "You may be able to control the subordinate Hellhounds, but you will never command an Alpha. You are just an ambitious demon." He sat back, and considered his wine. "Only Lucifer, or one who may hold the position of Lord of the Hounds, the one that Lucifer styled the Dominican, can do that. The realm of Hell itself, the very fabric and nature of Hell, must accept the Dominican's authority." He considered a gooey piece of baklava. "It sounds as though it is having a hard time taking yours seriously."

"You're more of a Dominican't," grinned Bobby.

"Great, great," Crowley grated out, "I have to find some dog whisperer with the right family tree to pull the pooches into line, and hope he doesn't like to play with knives and have a psychotic hate-on for decent ties and bespoke suits, although Dean's idea of provoking that Shepherd woman to murder is still somehow very appealing, the idea of breaking her on the rack gives me a warm fuzzy feeling inside..."

"You will not find one," Hades went on with what sounded suspiciously like satisfaction, "While the post is already occupied."

"...And I'm going to make this Domini-bloody-can pick up the dog crap, too... what?" Crowley looked confused.

"There is an extant Dominican," Hades repeated.

"There is?" Sam had a nasty suspicion forming in his mind.

Hades popped the baklava into his mouth and savoured it. "The Alpha of the pack answers to the Dominican." He picked up another sticky sweet. "And given the number of times you have tried to double-cross, manipulate or murder him, I doubt that he is in any hurry to bend his knee to you. This is wonderful, dear, did you put cinnamon in the syrup? We must send some back with them, for Lucifer."

* * *

><p>The Greeks-feeding-people-up-thing? It's true. My mum worked in a fish &amp; chip shop run by a Greek family. Yaya (the grandmother) would babysit us as well as their kids, and she fed us constantly. She was always berating my mother about me not eating enough; she would stand, and yap at my mother in Greek, while her daughter-in-law stood by and translated. Bearing in mind that I have been, ahem, robust since childhood, it was doubly incomprehensible. "What is wrong with your daughter? She does not eat! Is she sick? You must take her to the doctor! What is wrong with the child? If she does not eat, she will never develop a figure! She will never find a husband! How can you do that to your daughter? She must eat!" This, after I'd shovelled down an after-school snack, a plateful of lamb and salad, pastries, then a meat snack whilst doing homework. Yaya Panagopoulos clearly took it as her personal mission to save me from miserably slim spinsterhood. Opa!<p>

Reviews are the Great Big Stick Chunks of Baklava after the Greek Dinner of Life!


	20. Chapter 18

My word, it is turning out to be a long one, isn't it, as Jess once said to Sam... But there's light at the end of the tunnel. Onward!

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 18<strong>

Bobby started to laugh while Sam looked almost as horrified as Crowley.

"So, it's somebody who you've pissed off?" Dean grinned around a mouthful of sticky pastry, "Could be a very long list you have to work through." He looked thoughtful. "If this has got cinnamon in it... I wonder if it would work on Jimi the way chicken wings do, you know, cinnamon-scented out the exhaust pipe. Hey, J-Man!" The dog sat up, stretched luxuriantly, and trotted over to Dean, eyeing the sweet treat. "Let's do an experiment!"

"Er, I don't think the list is that long, Dean," Sam ventured, watching as Jimi snuffled down the pastry, and sat licking syrup from his whiskers. The dog dialled the Faithful Companion eyes up a notch, hoping to solicit another. "I think it's probably very short."

Crowley groaned, and dropped his head into his hands. "If I ever meet that bitch Karma," he muttered, "I am going to give her such a ding on the ear..." He sighed deeply. "I wonder if they'd let me into the Cage," he said mournfully, "If I asked for political asylum. If I was carrying a tray of baklava, that would help, wouldn't it?"

"It's you, ya idjit!" Bobby laughed, "Dean, who summoned Jimi senior? Who turned him from a Hellhound into a Hunting dog? And now, who does Jimi junior answer to, as _his_ Alpha?" Dean was feeding Jimi more baklava. "Or should that be, who does Jimi junior manipulate shamelessly," he chuckled.

"Huh? Me?" Jimi took advantage of Dean's distraction to sidle closer to the table, and extend his tongue to snaffle a small piece of lamb.

"I suspect it is a side effect of your potential to wield power in Hell," Hades theorised, "The same bloodlines that would enable either of you to command obedience in Hell enables you to command the obedience of Hellhounds. Like Belisario – Jimi senior," he smiled fondly as the current Alpha of the Infernal Pack craned his head, and sniffed hopefully at another morsel on the table, "It takes careful breeding to produce such candidates. He who set your eventual births in train may or may not have foreseen this... situation arising."

"God is not dead," moaned Crowley, "God is alive and kicking, and He hates me."

"Stands to reason," Bobby nodded, "Since everybody else does."

"Thank you for that touching token of support," Crowley muttered.

"Well, sucks to be you, Your Majesty," grinned Dean smugly, "Because neither Jimi nor myself is going to Hell to work for you."

"Now now, Dean, my lad, don't be so hasty," Crowley forced himself to smile, "Before I was called to the thankless duty of King of Hell, I was King of the Crossroads, remember? I'm sure we can make a deal that's satisfactory to both of us. Think about it, Dean," Crowley wheedled, "You are in the catbird seat here. I may not be a beloved ruler, but I have the power, and the means to meet your price. So, what will it be?" He smiled widely. "Money? Women? Cars? Hey, how about this, I send a pick-up crew back to the 1960s, and pick up your Impala the day she rolls off the line, and deliver her to you, here and now!"

"Here are my terms," Dean's smile didn't go anywhere near his eyes, "Jimi and I will re-train your remaining Hellhounds to fetch the souls of the sinful, those Damned by their own conduct in life, in return for your bones. I'll give you one year, Hellside, to get your affairs in order, then light you up." He sat back, looking satisfied with his offer. "Hell will be saved, and Earth will be saved, even if you have to sacrifice yourself for it. Perhaps a small obelisk will be erected in your memory, and the Hellhounds will cock their legs on it as they pass in a gesture of thanks to the memory of the selfless individual who gave up his own existence that they might live."

Crowley's face drained. "Er, that wasn't really what I had in mind," he said.

"Then train your own damned dogs," snapped Dean, "If you can get them to stop running away, or crapping on your carpet."

"Dean, we gotta do something, bro," Sam tried in his best defusing tone, "Or Hell will start a pillow fight, and we'll be the meat in the sandwich with no room for the mustard."

"I would suggest a new litter," Hades cut in smoothly, "Of similar breeding, to infuse some new life into the pack. Train the young ones, then let the effects filter out through the rest. Now, if you were to let Jimi sire the litter, you would make provision for a possible Alpha candidate at some later stage, when they start breeding themselves. It just so happens that my own dog is ready to breed again. If you were to let Jimi mate Kerberos..."

"What?" Dean's eyebrows shot up into his hairline. "Hey, look, that sort of thing might be all right for totally mythological dogs, or Greek dogs, or totally mythological Greek dogs, but I'm telling you right now, my man Jimi does not swing that way!"

"Er, Dean," Sam began.

"Be quite Sam!" Dean snapped. "Look, no offense intended, informed consenting adults and all that, yeah, sure, but...

"Um, Dean," Sam tried again.

"Not now, Sam, Jimi has never looked at a guy dog that way before, I mean, sure, he likes a good manly butt-sniff, but that's just like dogs shaking hands, right..."

"Dean," Sam tried once more.

"Not NOW, Sam, his daddy, Jimi Senior, competed as Winchester Ladies' Man, and I think that gives you all the information you need to know..."

"Dean," Bobby took up the challenge of interrupting the monologue.

"Not now, Bobby, and I remade him, right, so he was really a ladies' man, and his son is a ladies' man..."

"Dean, son..."

"And he's not going to make asspuppies with a draft horse!" Dean finished.

Hades blinked in incomprehension.

"Dean," Sam sighed, "I don't know if you noticed on the way in, but Cerberus is female."

Dean blinked in incomprehension. "Cerberus is... you mean he's... that is, she's... he's a she?"

"Of course," Hades told him, "It requires a male dog and a female dog to produce young, as it does for humans." He looked slightly puzzled. "Of course, I am not familiar with the customs of your society..." he added.

"Don't mind this idjit here," Bobby slapped Dean upside the head, "He was dropped on his head as a small child."

Sam looked thoughtful. "Er, how does that actually happen?" he asked, "Because, there's a slight, you know, height discrepancy..."

"An orange box," said Dean promptly, "Or a stepladder."

"In my experience, boy," Bobby grinned, "Dogs are very much like teenagers in that respect; where there's a will, they'll find a way."

"Bobby is correct," Hades smiled, "But perhaps we can discuss this further outside. Tell me," he asked eagerly, "Do either of you water-ski?"

**...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... **

"It's so nice for him to have someone to drive the boat," observed Persephone, waving as the large high-powered speedboat powered past on the Styx, with two figures whizzing along behind it; one waved to them as they passed, while the other, the taller, seemed to be concentrating on staying upright. "Shiva gets seasick, and when we go to visit Horus, the rowers on his barge just can't get up enough speed." She waved back. "He certainly seems to know what he's doing."

"If it has a motor to make it go, Dean can drive it," Bobby smiled. "They do seem to be having fun. I never did pick Sam as the water-skiing type, although he did learn all sorts of things when he went away to college."

"I've tried it a few times, but I'm afraid I just fall over," the Queen of the Underworld confided. "And my hair gets full of weed."

"Sam may be complaining about that later. Er, Lady Persephone," Bobby began, "Seein' as we've eaten with you, here, in the Underworld, I hope your husband aint fixin' to try to compel us to stay, you know, like the pomegranate seeds you ate..."

Persephone laughed. "Oh, that," she smiled in genuine amusement, "That's just what we told my mother. I was her only daughter, and she never would have let me leave home, otherwise. It's a Greek mother thing, I'm afraid." She laughed again at his expression. "Oh, it was terribly dramatic, Hades 'abducting' me, and me eating the seeds. Hermes nearly gave us away, when he 'rescued' me, he wouldn't stop giggling..."

The boat made another pass. Jimi stood in the stern, barking excitedly, as Hades jumped the wake, and Sam managed a wave without falling over. Dean gunned the engine, and swerved to send a wash lapping across the surface of the river.

A little further downstream, Crowley sat disconsolately on the bank next to a robed figure.

"There's no point, when they're doing that," griped the old man, grimacing irritably as the wash reached where he'd pulled his own craft out of the water, "I just have to wait until they've finished, or I get swamped. And then I get complaints because my passengers get wet. You should've seen the total cock-up when the Aesir were here. I thought Thor would sink like a stone, he's that big, and he insisted on carrying his hammer the whole time..."

"What happened?" asked Crowley.

"Ha! He took to it like a duck to water," grumbled the hunched figure, pulling a dog-ended self-rolled cigarette from behind his ear and lighting it. "Hades had him doing slalom by the end of the first day. I had a full load in the ferry, and those idiots swamped us. Chaos. Utter chaos." He took a puff, then offered it to Crowley, who accepted it, took a long drag, then passed it back. "The blessed dead in the river, trying to tread water, which is pretty damned difficult when you don't actually have a body any more. You could've walked ashore on their heads. It was like the bloody Titanic. I pulled out as many as I could, but most of 'em just sank to the bottom, then walked across. Demanded their ferry fares back, too, cheap cheeky bastards."

"They have no bloody idea, Charon," Crowley muttered, swigging from his flask and passing it across, "They really have no bloody idea how much they need us."

"Isn't that the truth," empathised Charon. "We keep things running smoothly, behind the scenes, and what thanks do we get for out efforts?" He drank, and passed the flask back.

"Death by PowerPoint, ruined ties, and dog crap on the carpet," replied Crowley gloomily.

"A hullful of water, lost revenue, and penalties due to timetable interruptions," nodded the Ferryman of the Styx. "They'll be piling up on the other side," he went on resentfully, "I'll have to stack 'em three high to get back on schedule at this rate."

"I have exactly the same problem, mate," Crowley sympathised. "As soon as something goes wrong they're quick to scream blue murder, but so long as it all keeps operating for them, it's thanks-very-much-now-crawl-back-into-your-hole."

"I never thought of using dogs," mused Charon. "I suppose something like Newfoundlands might be up to the job, but they're big. They'd cost a fortune to feed. And you can bet that he," the Ferryman gestured dismissively in the direction of the speedboat, "Would make me pay for it."

"They are all, without doubt, ungrateful tossers," affirmed Crowley.

**...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... **

After an afternoon of water-skiing, Crowley helped Charon push his ferry back into the water. Persephone insisted that they have coffee and sweets before they leave. She pushed a large flat box into Crowley's hands.

"Do please pass these on to Lucifer," she told him, "And if you get an opportunity, do encourage him to share with is brother." Crowley gave her a wan smile.

"It has been most interesting to meet you all," Hades said, "And I do think that a new litter would be the best solution to your problem."

"Well, maybe one of those sets of airline stairs would do the job," suggested Dean with a smirk.

"When I was a kid, we once saw a Fox Terrier trying to get it on with a Great Dane," chortled Bobby, "Damned thing was tryin' to climb the fence. Talk about the triumph of optimism over physics GOD'S TITS!"

They gawped in disbelief as they emerged from the villa. Jimi had joined Hades' dogs for some play. At least, that's what he had been doing when they'd gone inside...

"Ah," remarked Hades, "Well, she is in season, I did tell you, and seeing as Jimi is a natural Alpha, it's not surprising."

The astonished silence was broken only by the sounds of Jimi's happy grunting, and Cerberus's contented panting as the Alpha of the Infernal Pack embraced her rear end in reciprocating fashion.

"That is quite possibly one of the most disturbing things I've ever seen," remarked Crowley, "And I'm speaking as King of Hell."

"How the hell does he stay there?" asked Sam faintly.

"How the hell did he _get_ up there?" wondered Bobby.

"Is it, like, velcro or something?" Sam mused.

Ohhh, wake me when it's over," Crowley shut his eyes.

"That's my boy," beamed Dean.

Once Jimi's amorous encounter was completed, he dropped back to the ground, and joined his Alpha.

"I shall contact you when the pups are ready for their new home," Hades told Crowley. "It's up to you to make your arrangements with the Dominican before then."

"Thank you for the reminder," muttered Crowley, peering closely at the small iridescent cube that, "So, are we ready to go? Yes? Nobody else feel the need to dash of for a little bit more watersports, or a quick spot of mating? Good. Right. Now, according to the manual, I just hit this button, and it reverses the route...

_glerp_

"_Ima __nani __o __shimasu __ka, __Bobi-san?_"

"_Sumimasen, __Sojobo-sama, __uchi __de __ikimasu._ Crowley, ya idjit, give me that thing..."

**...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... **

Crowley finally managed to navigate them back to Singer Salvage.

"Finally," griped Bobby, heading straight for the bottle of Scotch Crowley had left behind.

"So, what do we do now?" asked Sam.

"Wait for the puppies," Dean told him, "And watch Crowley try to find some way to convince me and Jimi to help him train them."

"Oh, come on, Winchester," Crowley huffed, "You know the score here, we have to sort out the supply of souls to Hell, or both our happy little homes go up in a puff of demonic feuding."

"You're right, and he knows it," Bobby commented, "He just has a double helping of the asshat gene, and sometimes he's just gotta let it out."

"How long will that take?" Sam queried.

"Well, dogs have a gestation of about two months," Bobby told him, "Then they're not ready to leave their Mom for another two months or so, so make it four months."

"I guess we get on with the job until then," answered Dean, "If the sinful souls are hanging around and causing trouble for the living, we do what we've always done, and gank 'em."

"Oh, fuck," moaned Crowley, "I really don't want to face that lot Down There – it's intolerable as it is! Bobby," he went on, smiling his most charming smile, "Bobby, love, you have a spare room, if I could just doss down here for a little while..."

"Hmmmmm," Bobby appeared to give the matter some consideration, "I could use some help with something I'm workin' on, something of an occult nature..."

"Then I'm your man!" cried Crowley, "Or you demon, if that's what you need. I can be the Igor to your Dr Frankenstein, the Tonto to your Lone Ranger!"

"I was thinkin' more the target to my ammunition," Bobby continued, "Seein' as I've had this new idea for my anti-demon shells..."

"Words cannot describe how hurt I am," said the King of Hell mournfully as both Winchesters guffawed. "I shall be in contact, you callous and cruel individuals." With a much put-upon sigh, he disappeared.

**...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... **

...But once again, he didn't go far.

He could feel their presence; the key-counters called to him with their siren song, promising unfettered access to copying, binding and recreational laminating. Quietly he made his way across the room, to where a large glass vase full of daisies from the yard sat on the table. Crowley smiled. There they were, sealed in a plastic bag, at the bottom of the vase. The old fella must be starting to lose his marbles, he thought, silently removing the daisies from the vase.

**...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... **

In the kitchen, Bobby and the Winchesters heard an agonised scream of the sort that might be expected if a demon was to plunge an arm into a vase full of holy water.

**...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... **

Sam quickly found three jobs that sounded like cases of uncollected sinful souls lingering, so the Winchesters prepared to ship out the next day. They were just preparing to leave when Bobby's cell played 'Short People' again.

"Bobby!" Crowley's panicked voice shrieked, "Bobby, I need your help!"

"Oh, God, Crowley, what is it now?" he rolled his eyes, and flicked his phone to speaker.

"It's bedlam Down Here, Bobby!" Crowley yelped, "It's chaos! They're out of control! Aaaaaaargh. AAAAAAAARGH! HEEEEEELP!"

"Okay, just calm down," Bobby replied, "What's happening?"

"They're attacking me!" came the reply, "They're attacking me! I'm trapped in my office! Oh, no, they're trying to get through the door..."

"Is there a coup in Hell?" demanded Sam, "Whose faction is it? What's going on?"

"They're through! They're through!" screamed Crowley, "They're in here! HELP ME!"

"Get your ass Topside, boy," growled Bobby, "And we'll deal with it here."

No sooner had he shut his phone than there was a _swoonch_ of manifestation, and Crowley appeared in the living room. His suit was tattered, his hair was in disarray, one of his shoes was gone, and he wore an expression of terror.

A dozen small, swirling balls of what looked like black smoke orbited around him, like tiny comets dive-bombing a beleaguered planet.

"AAAAAAAAARGH!" screamed the King of Hell, waving his arms around wildly as one of them took a chunk out of his tie. "Make them stoooooop!"

Dean grabbed up the vase with the daisies and key-counters in it, and sloshed the holy water at the globs of vapour as they whizzed around. It had no effect on them.

"Crowley, what kind of demons are they?" yelled Sam.

"They're not demons, Mooseman!" shrieked Crowley, swatting at one of the trailing clouds, "They're the puppies! They're Jimi and Cerberus's puppies!"

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><p>Altogether now, one, two, three, AWWWWWWW!<p>

Because reviews are the Baby Puppies causing Chaos in the New Foreverhome of Life!


	21. Chapter 19

I know what that Gamble woman looks like. She'd better not kill Bobby off, or I will channel The Cranky Antipodean Werewolf Within, and I will tear her bloody head off and play football with it...

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><p><strong>Chapter 19<strong>

"Puppies?" Sam's face creased in confusion. "Bobby said it would take about four months..."

"It did!" howled Crowley, as a particularly playful little smoking meteor swooshed past his ear, "It's been about four months, Hellside! Owwwwww! Call them off, Winchester, call the little bastards off!"

"That would be about right," Bobby grinned, "If a month Up Here is about ten years Down There, then one of our days would be around four months Downstairs..."

"Deeeeeeeean!" Crowley wailed, "Do somethiiiiiiiing!"

"Awwwwwww," Dean couldn't stop the sunny smile breaking out on his face, "But they seem to be having such fun..."

"Pups should learn through play, bein' so young," Bobby nodded sagely.

"Learning to shred expensive menswear is not at the top of the training priority list!" Crowley waved his hands ineffectually at the zooming Hellpups, "Get the damned things off me!"

"You'd best call them away, son," Bobby winked to Dean, "Before His Majesty here ends up the Emperor With No Clothes."

"Um, how do I do that?" asked Dean, becoming serious.

"You're the Domini-bloody-can, you prat!" snapped Crowley, slapping a small zippy puff away from his tie, "Leave it! Leave it! Oh, you little turd, I'll have your balls for that..."

"Just try calling them, bro," suggested Sam, "If you're the Lord of the Hounds, they'll come when you call them."

"Okay. Right. Ahem." Dean had a sudden stab of trepidation; they were cute looking little balls of fluffy smoke right now, but they were still Hellhounds. The idea of actually calling them to himself set off alarm bells ringing deep down in his soul, but he had to do this. "All right. Pup pup pup pup pup!" he called in a high cheery voice, "Pup pup pup pup pup pup!"

The little comets suddenly left off harassing Crowley, and zoomed in at Dean, whizzing around him. He steeled himself for the moment of terror he was sure would come, but the little fluffy smoke-balls just orbited, zipping around him.

Then, on the very edge of perception, he caught the vaguest traces of what he supposed must be their thoughts.

_Play! Play! Alpha! Play! Our Alpha calls! Play! We are strong, we are happy! Play, Alpha, play!_

Tentatively he held up a hand; two little sparkling trails of vapour chased each other around it, brushing against his skin. He laughed.

"Er, Dean?" asked Sam uncertainly.

"Tickles!" smiled Dean, reaching out to caress another little puff as it surged past him. Another one drifted past his face, and he was sure he felt the ghostly lick of a small tongue kissing his nose. Three smoky wisps chased each other around his waist, and another settled on his left shoulder. "Aaaaaargh!"

"Are you okay, bro?" Sam wanted to know.

"Yeah, Sammy," Dean smiled hugely, "Just a cold nose in the ear. Hey, knock it off, you two," he waved a hand gently through two tangling clouds, breaking up their squabble, "Play nice with your sister." The squabbling pups resumed their chase, another two joining in. "These guys are really kinda cute," he laughed, "Which is not something I ever thought I'd say about Hellhounds." Jimi sat next to Dean, tail wagging, whuffing excitedly, nosing at the little balls of vapour as they trailed past him. "Yup, they're all yours, Jimi," Dean grinned.

"You can... see boys and girls?" asked Bobby.

"Yeah," Dean beamed as another one hovered in front of him, apparently soliciting pats, "I count... six boys, and... six girls. No, wait," he homed in on a very small wisp, "There's another one, but it's too fast..."

"Well, when you've finished horsing around, perhaps we can try to figure out what to do next," suggested Bobby.

"Yeah, okay," Dean sounded a little disappointed. He cleared his throat. "Alright, you lot," he intoned in mock sternness, "Let's see you. Make yourselves presentable, so I can see you. Yes, I'm talking to you too," he cocked an eyebrow at the smallest one, which continued to whizz around his head.

The little balls of fluffy smoke broke off, and congregated near the floor. They swirled, thickened, and... took form.

"Oh God," grinned Sam, pulling out his cell, "I just gotta get a photo of this."

Twelve puppies sat on the rug, clustering around Jimi, all looking up at Dean with expectant expressions.

"Yes, yes, very nice," sighed Crowley, inspecting the tattered remains of his suit, "Let's all go 'Awwwwww' at the adorable puppies. The adorable, sweet puppies. The adorable, sweet, destructive, suit-eating little bastardfuckmonster puppies..."

"Absolutely," nodded Sam, snapping away, "I think my head might explode from this much cute in one place."

Bobby inspected the line-up. "I'd say we got two Rotties, there," he indicated two of the pups, one of which was clearly the largest of the litter, "And those two look like German Shepherds, then I'd say Mastiffs, and Wolfhounds, I'm guessing Dogue de Bordeaux for those two, and Cattle Dogs for that pair."

"Says here, six litter brothers, and seven litter sisters," said Crowley, pulling a piece of paper from a pocket. "That's the biggest one, born first," he pointed to the male Rottweiler puppy, who wagged his little tail and gazed adoringly at Dean, "Ippeas. I suppose he must be your Alpha contender."

As they watched, Jimi took the largest pup carefully by the scruff, and positioned it between his front paws, then began to wash his son's ears. The pup squawked in protest, but Jimi rumbled a gentle reprimand; with a humph strangely reminiscent of Sam, the pup subsided, and resigned himself to enduring some parental ablutions.

"Maybe one day," remarked Bobby, "But not yet."

"Ippeas?" snorted Dean. "What sort of a name is Ippeas? It sounds like something that women use on their faces to get rid of wrinkles. Or a perfume being touted by a third-rate celebrity who's only famous for crying when she got arrested."

"It's a Greek name meaning 'horseman' or 'mounted warrior'," Bobby told him. "Of course, you could always pick a different form of it."

" 'Horseman' isn't really much better," mused Dean, watching the pup turn sad eyes to him in a silent appeal to be rescued from personal hygiene.

"Well, you could go with 'Knight', or 'Cavalier'," Bobby suggested. "Or... Chevrolet," he added innocently, "If you don't mind French."

"Ippeas is fine," Crowley put in quickly, "Ippeas is just fine, don't you dare, Winchester, don't you dare name my new lead dog after your bloody..."

"Chevy! Chevy!" Dean called cheerfully to the pup. With a happy bark, the heir apparent of the Infernal Pack pulled himself away from his sire's attentions, and bounded to Dean's feet. "You like that better too, don't you?" he reached down to pat the pup. Chevy grinned doggily at him, and whuffed happily.

"Didn't you say there were thirteen?" asked Sam, doing a headcount as Jimi grabbed another hapless ear-washee.

"Hey!" Dean barked at the one small glob of smoke that continued to circle cheerfully around his head, "I meant you too! Go on, get with the program! Let's see you."

The small strand of vapour streamed away to join the rest of the litter, solidifying, and taking shape.

Sam's cell clicked frantically, as Crowley snorted in disbelief. "That's not a dog!" he declared disdainfully, "It's a fluffy rat!"

"I think you'll find that it's a Toy Poodle," Bobby laughed. The tiny puppy looked up at Crowley, bounded across to him, and began to hump his shoe. "And I think she likes you," he added.

"Oh, Jesus suffering fuck..." Crowley reached down to disengage the animal from his badly mauled footwear. She ran around his feet, and began to chew on his other shoe instead. "Get off, you idiot creature!" he yelled, as the little thing leaped for his face, planting a kiss on his nose. "Get out of it! Aaaaaaargh!"

"At least she's not trying to eat you," observed Bobby, as the smallest Hellpup joined the litter.

"It's probably tasting me," griped Crowley, wiping his face with a sad-looking hanky.

"Okay," said Dean, "So, we got our puppies, now what do we do?"

"First off, teach them to fetch," replied Bobby promptly. "That's where their Daddy can help."

"The J-Man does love his frisbee," agreed Dean. "So, what about it, Dad?" he called to Jimi, who was still washing his pups, "Feel up to a little fatherly bonding with the offspring? Okay, troops, everybody outside! Outside!"

Jimi jumped to his feet, and ran for the door. The pups scrambled to follow him, yapping and squabbling and tumbling after him, in a headlong dash. Jimi hit the door and disappeared through it. The pups followed, one after the other.

Then came the crack of splintering wood.

Heading outside to join the dogs, they saw the small poodle puppy-shaped hole in the door.

"Balls," said Bobby.

**...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... **

In the yard, the puppies ran, and chased butterflies, and yapped at an unwary squirrel, and rolled in something dead and smelly. Chevy suffered the indignity of being seized by grandma Rumsfeld and having a second ear-washing inflicted upon him. Sam swapped his phone to video, and filmed with the enthusiasm of a naturalist in a previously undiscovered penguin colony.

"Okay, everybody," called Dean, finding the bedraggled frisbee that Jimi and Janis were so fond of chasing, "We're going to learn 'fetch'. Come and watch. Your Dad will demonstrate." Jimi was eyeing the battered plastic disc keenly as Dean waggled it. "Now, you watch him, and he'll show you what to do. Everybody watching?" He frowned. "I said, everybody watching!" The poodle-shaped Hellpup left off digging at a particularly interesting smelling rock, and joined her siblings. "Okay. Now, watch this. Frisbee, Jimi, frisbee!" Dean waggled the toy again, and Jimi whuffed in anticipation. "Aaaaaaand... fetch!"

The frisbee skimmed away through the air, with Jimi in hot pursuit. He dodged between the car bodies, and leaped to catch it in the air, then came running back to deposit it at Dean's feet.

"Good boy!" Jimi danced on the spot, waiting for another throw. "Aaaand... fetch!"

After a couple of demonstrations, the puppies were bouncing with excitement. "You guys want to have a turn?" Dean waggled the frisbee. The litter yipped and pranced in excitement. "Okay, just a short one to start with." He skimmed it across the weeds. "Fetch! Fetch! Go Fetch!"

Twelve little balls of dark smoke suddenly streaked away, chasing the plastic circle. They whirled around it before it could land, and it hung in the air, caught in a vortex of swirling vapour. The miniature tornado reversed direction, and made its way back towards the house.

"Er, should we be heading for the cellar about now?" asked Crowley nervously.

As the whirlwind approached, it suddenly subsided, and there was nothing but a litter of puppies charging back towards them, Chevy in the lead, with the frisbee between his teeth.

"Good boy!" Dean praised, "Good pups! You're all such good pups!"

"Er, not quite all, bro," prompted Sam with a smile, jerking a thumb sideways. The poodle-pup had gone back to digging at the interesting rock. "Looks like somebody doesn't fancy herself as a working dog."

"I thought I told you to get your fluffy butt with everybody else," Dean frowned at her.

The pup yawned hugely, and flopped down to the ground for a nap.

"Hellhounds do not nap!" snapped Dean.

The pup opened one eye, yawned again, and went back to her snooze.

"Well, you'll occasionally get a dog that doesn't inherit the right instincts," shrugged Bobby, "There are gun dogs who are gun shy, and there a stock dogs that just don't know how to herd. It happens."

"Great, just great," muttered Crowley, "A Hellhound who's too lazy to fetch. Maybe she can learn to be a watch dog; if anyone breaks into my office, they'll trip over her and break an ankle."

A few more flips of the frisbee established that the pups definitely had the fetching instinct – no matter how far or how high Dean threw it, they would tear after it, and snatch it out of the air.

"Well, we've got that established," observed Sam, as Dean and Jimi rough-housed with the litter, "But it's only a piece of plastic. How do we teach them to fetch, well, evil souls?"

The beautifully evil smile that bloomed on Dean's face was one that would've been right at home on his demonic alternative reality counterpart. "You know, I have an idea about that," he announced. "Of course, I'll need some help. Can you give me a hand here, Crowley?"

"Stop that, you wretched creature!" Crowley was swatting at the poodle-pup once more, who'd had enough napping and was attempting to gnaw on his sock. "Get out of it! They're cashmere! What? Oh, look, she's put a hole in that one too!"

"He said, we need your help here," Bobby relayed, following Dean's line of sight, and getting an inkling of what he was planning. "Because there's something here that only you can do, King of Hell."

"Well, yes," agreed Crowley. "They will have to work in my realm, after all. So, what do we do?"

"We give them an evil soul to chase, of course," beamed Dean.

"Oh! Right!" smiled Crowley, "I'll have Orgle bring us a Damned soul right away..."

"No need," said Dean airily, "We got everything we need right here. Tiem! Zan!" he called to the gargoyles on the gates. "I need your help here!"

**...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... **

"Aaaaaaaaiiiiieeeee!" howled Crowley, shutting his eyes tightly.

"That's good, Crowley, that's good!" called Dean, "The anguished wailing is getting them really interested!"

"Look at this, they're going nuts!" said Sam happily, filming the pups jumping up and down and yipping excitedly at Crowley, who dangled twenty feet in the air, held aloft by the two gargoyles.

"Put me down, you overgrown coprolites!" shrieked the King of Hell. The gargoyles just grinned at him. "Oh, bugger me, you really should put some shorts on, pal..."

"Look, we need a really, really wicked soul for this," reasoned Bobby, "To give them a really, really powerful scent to follow. Who could possibly be more wicked than the King of Hell?"

"I hate you!" Crowley wiggled ineffectively, "I hate you! I hate you all so much! Aaaaaaargh!"

"Ready guys?" Dean asked. The grinning gargoyles nodded. "Okay. Are you watching, pups?" The litter yapped and bounded. "Aaaaaaand... FETCH!"

The gargoyles flapped off, with Crowley howling between them. The pups smoked out of their physical forms, and tore off after the anguished wailing, with Jimi barking encouragement.

"You know, you could've achieved the same thing by rubbing the frisbee on his jacket," Bobby pointed out equably.

"Yeah," agreed Dean, peering into the distance where the streaking balls of smoke had caught up with the gargoyles. "But this way is much more fun."

"And a frisbee wouldn't make that noise," Sam added, "This is more authentic. Maybe we should find them a Hunt, one of the uncollected souls to practise on. To make sure they've got the idea. There's one that's not too far from here."

"That would be a good idea," agreed Bobby.

"Won't be nearly as entertaining as this," grinned Dean smugly, watching the gargoyles relinquish their cargo. The small tornado approached once more with Crowley whirling around in its midst.

The Hellpups dropped Crowley at the Hunters' feet, and resumed their physical forms.

The small Hellpoodle trotted over to where he sprawled moaning in the dirt, and kissed his nose.

"Yup, she definitely likes you," grinned Bobby.

"Well, she must be the only one in the entire universe," grumbled Crowley, pulling himself painfully to his feet. The pup began to gnaw at his shoe again. "Hey! Get out of it! Oh, Lucifer's bum!" he humphed, pulling the shoe off, "Here, it's so damned delicious, have the bloody thing!" He flung it away into the weeds.

The Hellpoodle raced off after it, retrieved it, and brought it back to him, then began to kiss his leg through the hole she'd chewed in his sock.

"Maybe she can specialise in fetching Damned shoemakers and podiatrists?" suggested Bobby, as Crowley shrieked and hopped up and down on one foot.

The King of Hell flipped him the big vee.

* * *

><p>Should any of our Merkin cousins ever visit us Down Here, don't get caught out like George Bush Snr. did; he drove around during a visit to Oz flashing everybody the V-for-victory sign. Down here, that's an obscene gesture, a little cultural difference that the media had quite a bit of fun with at the time.<p>

Reviews are the Hellhound Puppies Chewing Holes in the Cashmere Socks of Life!


	22. Chapter 20

I suggest, Ciya, that you do not try to eat a Hellpuppy. It would probably chew its way out... The end is in sight, Denizens! This way, towards the conclusion, and possibly a visit from the DDD&SSS van!

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 20<strong>

"So, we can head out tomorrow, be there in less than two hours, show the pups the angry spirit, then set them on him," Sam consulted his laptop, "Of course, we'll have to have the salt ready to go, in case... Dean? Are you even listening to me?"

Dean was on the floor of the living room, rolling around on the rug with the puppies scampering around him, yipping and rassling and jumping, while Jimi reached out to grab the nearest one from time to time, to haul it in and wash its ears.

"It's hard to believe that they're going to grow up to be Hellhounds," he sighed, as one of the Cattle Dogs pushed its nose under his hand for more pats, "They're just adorable like this. I can't believe that Hellhounds start off this... cute."

"Well, they've had countless centuries in the Pit," intoned Bobby, a little sadly, "You boys don't need me to tell you, that place changes a body. It warps things. It turns human souls into demons, and mythological pups into Hellhounds." He looked thoughtful. "Maybe these guys will be less... savage about it, with their heritage," he mused. "They got a job to do, but maybe they'll be less... vicious about it. They're still dogs, after all." He smiled. "The Hellhounds jumping ship for human families showed that."

"Don't you dare go turning them into cuddly-wuddly lapdogs," said Crowley, "Just remember, they are working animals, and they will have a very important job to do." He looked at his watch. "Well, you seem to have it under control for now," he smiled, "So I'll see you tomorrow for their training run, yes?"

"Hey, you can't leave 'em here tonight!" protested Bobby.

"Sorry, Bobby, things to do, dear, people to see, Hierarchy to horrify, souls to corrupt, files to shuffle, ties to mourn, you know the drill, it never ends," the King of Hell told him cheerfully, "Must dash, toodle-bye!" He disappeared.

"Balls," grumped Bobby, looking at the pack of puppies crawling all over Dean on the floor, "What am I supposed to do with them?"

"We'll figure something out," Dean said confidently, ruffling another pair of ears.

"I guess if they got their Daddy's cast iron stomach, they can eat kibble while they're physically manifest," Bobby mused.

"And if they're extra good, we can put on a scary film, and make Francis scream and scream and scream until you're all full up with terror and nice and sleepy, can't we?" Dean crooned to the pups. "Yes we can! Yes we can! 'Nightmare on Elm Street' has him hiding his head under the blankets, and 'H.R. Puffnstuff' made him practically wet himself when he was a kid, Witchiepoo scared him that badly..."

"Jerk," muttered Sam. He frowned, doing a head count. "Weren't there thirteen?"

**...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... **

Crowley sank into the expensive leather sofa, and plucked resignedly at his suit.

"How did the puppies do, Mr Crowley?" asked Orgle, handing over yet another suit.

"They show great promise, Orgle," sighed the King of Hell, "They responded well to the Dominican, they have the instinct to fetch Damned souls, and their teeney weeny wittle faces are extremely cute, and their teeny weeny wittle coats are fluffy, and their teeny weeny wittle teeth and teeny weeny wittle claws are sharp, and they are without doubt the most evil teeny weeny wittle fuckers to grace Creation."

"Duke Ganthery wants to talk to you," Orgle relayed.

"I don't know how many times I have to tell him," groaned Crowley, "I cannot just order Lust to join him for an evening of 'stimulating conversation'."

"He does already spend a lot of time with Gluttony," observed the fiend.

"Spends time with Gluttony?" spluttered Crowley. "I'm pretty sure he ate Gluttony! I mean, that's the only explanation. How does any person get that fat without actually collapsing to form a black hole? What does he expect Lust to do, anyway? She'd need mountain-climbing gear, and a team of Sherpas..."

"He says he needs the intellectual provocation she can provide," Orgle reported.

"What he needs," growled Crowley, shrugging on his jacket, "Is to be floated off the beach, out past the sand bars, and back to his pod. Honestly, there are days when I think that one of his bedtime snacks might've had a hand in the extinction of the dinosaurs. Lust wouldn't give him the time of day. All she could do with him would be oral sex, and you know she's never satisfied with just talking about it." He stood up. "Well, show him in, I'd better deal with it. That crowbar and the grease gun are still behind the door, if he gets stuck."

As Orgle went to show in the senior demon, Crowley smugly prepared to seat himself on his 19th century rosewood French bidet. Not only was it comfortable, but it really threw the Hierarchy for a loop when he did that.

As he sat, there was a decidedly sharp nip to his nether regions.

He yelped, leaped up, attempted to inspect the damage to his trousers, and glared at the small fluffy body that had made itself comfortable in the fine Chinese porcelain pot.

"What the bloody hell are you doing there? Get out of it!"

**...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... **

"Oh, crap," moaned Sam, rubbing a hand over his face, "What time is it?"

"Zero dark hundred," grumbled Bobby, yawning. It was the wee small hours, and the puppies were supposed to be sleeping in the living room in their nest of old blankets.

Except they weren't. They were howling and wailing relentlessly.

"It's usual for them to be unsettled when they first leave their Mom," recalled Bobby with a put-upon sigh, "But this takes the cake."

"They've been going on like that for three hours!" exclaimed Sam.

As he spoke, Jimi bolted from the living room, a desperate look of panic on his face and his tail between his legs, and shot up the stairs.

"Come back here, you furry-assed coward!" Dean's voice trailed after the dog. "They're yours, Jimi, damn it!"

"More coffee, bro?" asked Sam, poking his head into the living room.

Dean sat on the pile of blankets. The distressed pups crawled all over him, yipping and crying. "What I want," he replied, turning a wan face to Sam, "Is for these little assbutts to go to sleep." A pup crawled up his chest and licked frantically at his face. "Go to sleeeeeeeeep," he pleaded.

"How do you get puppies to sleep?" asked Sam. "Can we give them some warm milk, or something?"

"I should've made you watch Puffnstuff," Dean griped at Sam, "And filled their little bellies with terror."

Bobby looked thoughtful. "I put an old wind-up clock under Rumsfeld's blanket, for the tick," he mused. "We need something more appropriate, here. Come with me Sam." They disappeared briefly, then returned with Bobby carrying a small portable stereo.

"What have you got there?" asked Dean hopefully. "Some recordings of the anguished lamentations of a great crowd of suffering humanity?"

"Not exactly," Bobby told him, grinning as he hit 'play', "It's 'Barry Manilow's Greatest Hits'."

"_What?__"_ Dean's eyes bugged in panic as the opening strains of 'Mandy' filled the room. "What the hell? You are not going to play that crap at me!"

"After Barry, we have some Julio Iglesias," Bobby informed him, "Followed by Demos Roussos."

"And I've got some stuff for you here if that runs out," Sam smiled, "Mumford and Sons, Five for Fighting, some Jonas Brothers..."

"No! NO!" yelped Dean. "Turn that crap off! I'm not going to sit here, trapped under a pile of puppies, and listen to that crap!" His voice became shrill. "You turn that off, Bobby! You turn that off right now!"

"I think it's working," Bobby winked at Sam.

"Huh?" Dean rubbed at his sleep-filled eyes, and looked down. The pups were still fretting and whimpering, but their beseeching cries were subsiding to whines and yaps.

"Hellhounds, dude," Sam grinned at him, "Your anguished moans and suffering are the ticking clock under their blanket. Look, it's soothing them."

"I don't believe it," Dean moaned pitifully. "We are going to sit here all night, and listen to this crap, just to make me suffer so the puppies sleep?"

"Nope," corrected Bobby, "You are going to sit here all night, and listen to this crap, and suffer, and make the puppie sleep. We're going to bed."

"Don't do this," Dean begged, "You can't leave me here like this..."

"Watch us," yawned Sam. "Whatever you're doing, bro, keep doing it," he added, as Chevy yawned and settled in Dean's lap. "You really are rocking this whole Dominican thing."

"Noooooooooooo!" wailed Dean. Another pup yawned, and flopped down beside him. He caught their fuzzy thoughts. _Safety. __Contentment. __We __den __with __our __Alpha._

"Night, Dean," smiled Bobby, heading for the stairs with Sam following him.

_Oh Mandy, When you came and you gave without taking,_

_But I sent you away, Oh Mandy... _crooned Mr Manilow.

"Fuck my liiiiiiife," groaned Dean. Chevy humphed contentedly. _We __den._

Dean's exquisite suffering had all the pups snoring within half an hour.

When Sam and Bobby came downstairs in the morning, Dean was curled up amongst the blankets, with the pups clustered around him, Chevy tucked in under his chin.

Sam took lots of pictures, and left them to sleep in.

**...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... **

"Come on, you all need to calm down," Dean insisted the next evening, as they were preparing to head off on their spirit collecting trial. "Everybody, into the car! No, no, wait until I open the door!"

"You might want to suggest they take their physical forms, and sit down," suggested Sam, waving gently at two little smoky comets orbiting excitedly around his head where he sat behind the wheel. "They could be a bit distracting like this. Go on, shoo! Where's the Dominican? Where is he? Where is he?" The two little fluffy streaks broke off, and headed for Dean, whirling around his knees. "Hey," he prompted the small black pup that had settled on the front seat and was trying to work its muzzle onto his lap, "Dean says that no sane man should let a Hellhound's teeth near his junk."

"Oh, God," sighed Dean, as the pups swapped from physical to demonic form and back again, "They're going nuts! Come on, knock it off!"

"Well, a ride in the car is pretty exciting for most dogs," grinned Bobby, "Remember Jimi's first trip? And we know their Daddy loves it." Jimi sat patiently in the back seat. As a small puff of smoke whizzed past, he snatched it out of the air, pulled it down between his paws, and began to wash the pup's ears.

"Hey! Everybody manifest in this plane, right now!" Dean barked.

With a final rassle and yap, the puppies climbed into the back seat and clustered around their sire, the incumbent ear washee making small squeaks of protest.

"Okay," he frowned at them, "Now, everybody has to stay manifested. No smoking out, no whizzing about while the car is moving. And nobody is allowed to leave the car, until I say so. This is important. Stay with your sire."

"Ahem," Sam cleared his throat pointedly, with a glance down at the seat between them. The pup that was resting its chin on Sam's leg rolled big eyes at him.

"You can stay there, provided you don't wriggle around," Dean told the pup generously, "We don't want you distracting Samantha while she's driving. No tongue action."

"Dean! Gross!" Sam pulled a face. The pup settled more comfortably. "Oh, great, she's drooling on my leg."

"You idjits call in as soon as you're done, let me know how it went," instructed Bobby."

"Will do. Puppy express, hooo!" told his brother. The Impala eased out of the yard, and hit the road.

**...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... **

Not too surprisingly, the trip rapidly descended into a chaos.

"Hey!" Dean turned around in the front seat, and swatted at a couple of pups whose squabbling had moved to the foot well behind him, and was bumping him through the seat. "Knock it off!"

"Aaaah badtouchbadtouch!" yelped Sam, as the pup who'd chosen to ride up front eagerly put her front paws in his groin in an effort to see over the dash. "Deeeeean!"

"Don't go standing on that," Dean sighed, retrieving the pup, "It might be shrivelled away from lack of use, but we don't want him putting us into a tree. Hey! HEY! I said knock it off!" He reached back to break up another squabble.

"Er, zooming taking place at twelve o'clock high," Sam told him, flapping a hand at the small puff of cloud that whizzed past his head. "Come on, Mr Dominican, get them under control!"

"They're just excited," Dean said with a sigh, hearing their puppy chatter in his head. _Play! Play! We travel! Play! Excitement! We are with our Alpha! We are strong, we are happy! Play!_

"Hey, I said, no zooming!" Dean frowned. The pup obediently manifested in mid-air, and plopped down into his lap. "EEEEEEP!"

"Bad touch, bro?" asked Sam solicitously.

"Shut up," squeaked Dean, his eyes crossing.

"Maybe Jimi can help," suggested Sam, glancing in the mirror. What he saw was Jimi trying to sit on his paws, ears and tail all at once, as his mythological offspring stalked his various appendages. "Or not."

"I guess it's not easy to sit still for long when you're so young," Dean tried to be philosophical about it. "You used to fidget when you were a kid, you squirmed like you had worms or something, I used to wonder if AAAAAAAARGH!" He slapped frantically at the small wisp of smoke rising from the back seat. "Did you do that?" he demanded. "Did one of you do that? Did one of you just pee in my car?"

"Hang on, I have an idea," Sam huffed grimly, "To get them all to calm down. It's a bit drastic..."

"Sam, one of these little assbutts is trying to set fire to my car!" Dean said anxiously, "If you got any ideas now is the time!"

"Okay," Sam pulled a cassette tape from his pocket and slid it into the deck. The swelling strains of an orchestral introduction filled the car.

"What the hell is that?" asked Dean, "More of your emo crap?"

"Worse," grinned Sam, "It's the soundtrack from 'Beaches'."

_Did you ever know that you're my heeeeeeerooooooo,_ warbled Bette Middler.

"Aaaaaaaaaaaargh!" shrieked Dean. "Jesus Sammy, that stuff will shrivel your junk away worse than getting it stepped on by a puppy! Kill that shit!"

"Look, it's working," Sam pointed out, as the pups subsided. "You're everything I wish I could beeeeeeeeee," he joined in.

"Sam, you turn that off right now!" demanded Dean.

"Driver picks the music," Sam announced smugly. "I can flight higher than an eeeeeeaglllllllllle... It's cool, I got 'Phantom of the Opera' on the other side."

"NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!" wailed Dean.

The rest of the trip was punctuated by the occasional snore from one of the pups, or the occasional whimper from Dean.

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><p>I have witnessed an adult Rottie behaving exactly like this with puppies, including the trying-to-sit-on-every-part-of-his-own-body thing while they crawled all over him, chewing on any bit they could get hold of. The poor old bloke's expression when one of them started on his jowls was priceless.<p>

You know the drill - Reviews are the Excited Puppies Peeing on the Back Seat of Life!


	23. Chapter 21

Okay, names for the pups, since so many people keep asking...

Oh, Leahelisabeth: boardwatering (the opposite of waterboarding) is accomplished by dropping somebody into the water upside down, then repeatedly hitting them on the head with a board when they try to surface. The scoring system is fairly similar to that used for synchronised swimming, except there are no sparkly headpieces, and the person wielding the board gets points for posture.

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><p><strong>Chapter 21<strong>

"...The power of the music of the niiiiiight," sang Sam, in a reasonable untrained tenor, as Dean rocked slightly back and forth in shotgun.

"Make it stop, make it stop, make it stop," he whispered over and over.

"It's okay, Dean, we're here," Sam reassured him, pulling the car off the road and into the neglected cemetery.

"Thank fuck for that," grumbled Dean, "I think if I had to listen to your sissy music much longer, my eardrums would burst, my balls would drop off and my head would explode."

"Messy," commented Sam, killing the engine. "So, why don't you rally the troops, and we'll go poke at an angry spirit?"

"Seems like a shame," sighed Dean, "They're cute like this. And quiet. Still, we got a job to teach them. Hey, guys! Time to work! Hey, Buffy, move it," he ruffled the ears of the small pup that had spent most of the trip drooling gently on Sam's leg.

"Buffy?" queried Sam dubiously. "It's not a very Hellhound-ish sort of name."

"It's totally a Hellhound-ish name," replied Dean firmly, "It's a good name for a Hellhound who's going to spend the rest of eternity dealing with evil shit."

"What about those two, then?" asked Sam, jerking a thumb at the pups who had started their argument up again.

"That's Maul, and that's Vader," Dean told him, swatting gently at the squabble. "Hey, knock it off, you two!"

"Slightly more Hellhound-ish, I suppose," Sam rolled his eyes, "Aaaargh! Hey, didn't he say no zooming in the car?" He waved carefully at a small ball of smoke that orbited his head, then shot back into the back seat.

"That's Starbuck," Dean grinned, "She can't stay on the ground. And that's Apollo, who's not much better," he waved at another small wisp that swirled around him. "That's Hannibal, because he keeps trying to eat his Daddy, and that's Xena, that's Cerberella, named for her Mom..."

"Cerberella?" winced Sam. "Sounds like a newly discovered lobe of the brain."

"Shut up, she looks like her Mom, that's Dodge and that's Pontiac, then he's Kirk, because I totally caught him sniffing the girls' butts, and this," he picked up the female pup that looked like a German Shepherd, "This is Ronnie."

Sam's eyes bugged. "You've named a Hellhound after Ronnie? Are you suicidal?"

"She'll never know," Dean waved a hand dismissively, "Unless she does something really bad, in which case when they come to drag her away, sharing a name with one will be the least of her worries. Anyway, she looks like Ronnie, don't you? Yes you do! Yes you do! Yes – you – do! You got a pointy little nose, and sharp little teeth, and you had a grumpy little expression when you woke up, and you were bossing the others around..." Ronnie wiggled, and stuck her tongue into Dean's ear. "Aaaaargh! Okay, maybe werewolf Ronnie never did that."

They fetched the accoutrements of their trade from the trunk, and headed into the weed-covered ground.

"So, where is our surplus sinful spirit?" asked Dean, watching as Hannibal grabbed hold of the end of his sire's tail. Jimi stifled a yelp.

"Jason Jefferson," Sam told him, checking a rusting plot number marker, "Career criminal. Worked as a standover man for a gang involved in illegal gambling and money laundering. His family buried him here because it was cheap. A number of police attended the funeral; a local paper carried an unconfirmed report that it was so they could piss on his grave. Some of his old colleagues have suffered mysterious injuries at one of their favourite haunts – a couple of them swore it was Jason, but the police put it down to alcohol, or not wanting to co-operate with the police. He should be a nice, stinky soul just reeking of sin." He peered at another marker with his flashlight. "These are so corroded I might have to get the laptop out, see if I can find a map..."

"Or, we could ask the Demon King on the sun lounge," Dean pointed.

Crowley was reclining on a lounge, drink in hand, and he waved to them as they approached. "Ah, the intrepid Hunters and their band of merry mongrels," he raised his glass to the grave before him. "He also committed a couple of murders early in his career, but was careful enough to cover his tracks," he informed them. "A bright lad, our Jason. He will do well Downstairs. I am keen to see the prodigy pups in action, Dominican Dean." He proffered a packet of chips. "I brought crisps." Dean flipped him off. "In fact, now you're here, I'd be ever so grateful if you'd call this little sod back to you. Yes, I'm talking about you!" he snapped at the small puff of vapour that suddenly appeared and whizzed around his head.

"I wondered where you'd gotten to," frowned Dean, "Come on, come here!"

The little Hellpoodle ignored him; instead, the wisp of smoke shot into the packet Crowley was holding, sending potato chips flying. A small fluffy head emerged from the packet, chomping happily.

"AAAAARGH!" went Crowley, dropping his drink. "Get out of it! Oh, you've ruined my snacks! Look, they're all crushed! You little bugger! I said get out of it!" The Hellpoodle jumped into his lap, made herself comfortable, and chewed contentedly on the end of his tie. "Just once," the King of Hell sighed, "Just once, I wish you'd try chewing on a Damned soul, instead of something I'm eating or wearing. Well, don't just stand there, Rocky and Bullwinkle," he grumped petulantly at the Winchesters, "Start ghost-bothering." He gestured imperiously at the plot before him.

"At once, Your Majesty," griped Dean, picking up a shovel. "Come on, J-Man, give me a hand here. Dig! Dig! Dig here!"

Jimi, also referred to from time to time as Shovelpaws (usually by Bobby when he fell into one of the craters the dog sometimes liked to dig in the yard), had learned to help dig up graves when he was six months old, and could excavate a six-foot plot in a short time, given his Hellhound paws and doggy love of digging. However, he was hindered by the pups, who insisted on joining in by jumping in and out of the hole, attacking his paws while he dug, and turning around to tunnel the dirt back in as he went. After a while, Jimi whined, retreated, and resumed trying to sit on his feet, paws and tail all at once. Sam finished the digging while Dean kept one eye out for a spirit, and one eye on the pups.

"Ew," Sam wrinkled his nose as he broke the coffin open, "I hate it when they're still this juicy."

"I don't see him yet," Dean commented, scanning their surrounds.

"Well, don't just stand there, Lurch," Crowley commented, pouring himself another drink, "Poke him with a stick, or something."

Sam pulled himself out of the hole, and scattered salt over the remains.

"Still nothing," Dean humphed.

"Maybe you could spout some of that crap about saving people, fighting the good fight," suggested Crowley, "Because speaking as a member of the evil Damned, I can definitely say that it pissed me off to the point where I'd cheerfully throw you through the air and into OW!" he yelped as Sam turned and flung a handful of salt at him. "I should've shoved you right back into that bloody Cage," he muttered, "And thrown in a couple of skunks."

"And I should've burned you out when I had the chance," Sam shot back, his breath misting in front of his face. "Er, that's never good," he managed, before he went tumbling backwards.

"Finally," cheered Crowley, as the ghost of a heavyset man appeared and flickered. "Don't mind me, mate, I'll see you Downstairs, after your Induction, for your Official Pep Talk From The Boss," he added. "Do you have a pen with you? Very useful. They disappear Down There, I swear, the imps must eat them, or something..."

"Sam!" Dean started towards his brother.

" 'M fine," Sam told him, a little dizzily, "Just set the pups on him! AAAAAARGH!"

"Oh, well played, Mr Jefferson!" Crowley applauded, "Lovely form!"

"Here, pups! Here pups!" called Dean, one wary eye on the ghost as the puppies left off crawling all over Jimi (or, in Hannibal's case, trying to eat one of his ears). "You wanna play? You wanna play?"

They responded to the tone of his voice. _Play! Play! Our Alpha calls! Play!_

"Good pups!" he pointed to the spirit of Jason Jefferson. "You smell him? You smell him?"

Jimi trotted up behind his Alpha, hackles up, eyes red, and hellteeth bristling. He rumbled a deep growl that travelled through the ground.

The pups watched their sire, confused. Then...

"Grrrrrrrrrr." With a snarl that was adorably cute, Chevy stood next to Jimi, bared his little teeth, and growled.

"Good boy! Good boy!" Dean praised desperately, as the late Jason threw Sam into a bedraggled and weed-choked box hedge.

"Oh, over the fence for six!" cried Crowley. "Er, sorry," he said as Dean glared at him, "Should that be, out of the park for a home run? Stop that! Get out of it!" he swiped at the smoke wisp whooshing around his head, "I'm watching the game!"

The other pups took their cue from Jimi and Chevy, and started to growl. That got the ghost's attention.

Chevy broke from the pack, darted in, and snapped at the spirit's ankles. The ghost swatted at him as the pup shot away, disappearing through a headstone.

"Good boy!" yelled Dean, as Chevy circled back in, "Now, FETCH!"

That one dash broke the dam.

A dozen balls of smoke streaked through the air, crashing through the flickering outline of Jason Jefferson, as the ghost howled in anger and confusion, then pain. They began to whirl, and soon had the spirit trapped in their mini tornado. Traces of wounds began to appear on the ghost; the pups were biting and scratching at him.

"Good pups!" Dean called above the noise of snapping and snarling. "Now, take him home! Take him home!"

The small tornado wobbled, then wavered.

"Home, guys, take him home!' Dean gestured frantically at the ground. "Down to Hell!"

"I don't think they understand, bro," Sam staggered to his feet, "I don't think they get it!"

"Fuck," cursed Dean, as the tornado showed signs of collapsing. "Crowley!" he tried, "Take him to Crowley!" he ran to Crowley's lounge, and waved his arms enthusiastically. "Take him to Crowley!"

"What?" Crowley choked on his drink as the small whirling mass picked up speed again, and headed for him. "Don't you dare set them on me again!" he yelled, "This suit is clean on today!"

"They need someone to show them the way!" Dean snapped, "Something to follow Downstairs! That something is you! Good pups! Good pups!" he encouraged them as the whirlwind whisked away the packet of chips Crowley had been eating.

"Don't just sit there, Your Majesty," grinned Sam, "Lead the pack home!"

"Aaaaaaargh! Aaaaaaaargh! Oh, bugger!" howled Crowley, as the Hellpup dervish picked him up. "I hate youuuuuuuu!" they heard, as the King of Hell smoked out of his meatsuit, and twisted away.

The tornado followed him, and when the column of pitch-black smoke speared down into the ground, they followed him, their captive still howling.

With the pups gone, the graveyard was suddenly silent. Jimi whuffed a sigh that might've been part pride, and part relief.

"Wow," mused Sam, "Just... wow." He turned to Dean. "Looks like they got the idea."

"Yeah," Dean was watching the spot where they had dragged the spirit Downstairs, with a small, slightly sad smile on his face. "I guess they figured out how to be Hellhounds."

"It's their job, bro," Sam consoled him. "We need them to do it. All the Hunters in the world couldn't deal with a back-up of sinful souls, if the collection service doesn't drag them off to Hell when they die."

"I know." Dean nudged Crowley's meatsuit with the toe of one boot. "Doesn't mean I have to like it."

They were packing their tools back into the trunk when Jimi suddenly let out a sharp bark.

"What's up, J-Man?" asked Dean, turning to see what the dog was wagging his tail at.

"Er," said Sam.

Behind them, stood the pack of Hellpups.

Except, they didn't look like pups any more.

"Jesus fucking K-reist," breathed Dean, taking in the twelve massive creatures before him. They stood silently, eyes blazing hotly red, teeth like a Kodiak bear's bristling.

"I guess they really have figured out how to be Hellhounds," Sam commented, carefully reaching for the gun loaded with salt and iron shot.

Jimi trotted forward, leaped to grab at the nearest monster that was twice his size, and growled gently. With a small protesting whine, the thing allowed itself to be pulled to the ground, and have its ears washed.

The biggest one walked forward. Dean swallowed; it was tall enough to look him in the eye.

It sat, whuffed, and offered a gigantic paw.

Slowly, Dean smiled. "So, Chevy," he said, reaching to scratch behind an ear like a piece of badly tanned leather, "You figured it out then, huh?"

The Hellhound hung out its prehensile tongue, and panted happily.

"Maybe they just wanted to say goodbye," suggested Sam, putting down the gun.

"No," Dean corrected him, cocking his head. "They're just reporting back."

_We Hunted our Prey. We will Hunt. Our Prey awaits._

"It sure does," he smiled. "You guys have a lot of catching up to do. And you gotta inspire the others, too. Think you can do that?"

_We are strong, and we are happy! We will Hunt!_

One of the Hellhounds raised its nose to the air, scenting. With a low growl, it leaped into the air, becoming a wispy trail of smoke, then disappearing. Another followed, then another. One by one, the Hellhounds caught the scents of their prey, and rushed to their next jobs.

"Well, I can see you got it under control," Dean gave Chevy a final pat. "So, go get 'em! Go get 'em! Good boy!"

Chevy lifted his nose, and sniffed...

"Aaaaaaand... FETCH!" called Dean.

Chevrolet, Heir Apparent to the Infernal Pack, leaped to obey the Dominican.

**...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... **

On the one hand, Crowley mused later, when he returned to retrieve his meatsuit, at least this suit hadn't been completely ruined, although the tie would never sing opera again.

On the other hand, he didn't notice until much later that somebody – probably Dean – had taken a marker and drawn a moustache and fangs on it.

And then, there was the smell...

Cringing inwardly, he just hoped that it was the Winchesters' dog that had pissed on him.

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><p>Reviews are the Packets of Chips Consumed Whilst Sprawling on the Sun Lounge and Watching the Cricket Match Of Life!*<p>

*Actually, I tend to do something else as well, if the husband has the cricket on the telly, because, frankly, it's boring. Don't tell anyone else I said that, they'll take away my Australian Card...


	24. Chapter 22

lazerwolf314 has pointed out that scripts are not permitted on fanficnet. She is, of course, absolutely correct. However, I am hoping that the occasional interlude featuring the DDD&SSS van, or even just screaming hordes of Denizens chasing sparkly briefs, do not constitute 'script' to an extent that will make a sys op pull any of my stories of the site.

And if they do, you'll send emails demanding back your GWN, won't you, Denizens? *turns on big sad puppy dog eyes*

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><p><strong>Chapter 22<strong>

"So, they don't show up on camera once they're all growed up," mused Bobby, peering at Sam's phone. "Interesting."

"Maybe it's something to do with their habit of invisibility while they're working," Sam theorised, "Something that's bred into them. Or maybe it's something they grow into."

"Whatever the cause, they seem to be doin' their job," Bobby told the Winchesters. "I've had calls from some Hunters, reportin' that the spirits they've been tracking have just upped and disappeared. One guy was about to light up the remains, then the spirit just shrieked and vanished. He thought he heard a growl, but it was a windy night, and he couldn't be sure."

"They're good pups," Dean said, as he played tug-of-war with Jimi, poor Oinker Stoinker the blue squeaky pig toy squeaking between them, "And they know what their job is."

Jimi suddenly broke off from the game, and barked. A small outrush of air announced the arrival of the King of Hell. He did not look happy.

"This is for you, Winchester," he growled, slapping a piece of paper onto Dean's chest, "And then we will never speak of this again."

"What's this?" asked Dean.

"My dry cleaning bill," answered Crowley.

"Well, I'm not paying it," announced Dean, smirking. "In fact," he continued, eyebrows waggling, "I piss on your dry cleaning bill..."

"Is there a point to your visit, Crowley, or are you just lookin' for somebody to annoy?" asked Bobby in a long-suffering tone.

"Bobby," replied Crowley in a wistful tone, "How do you know I haven't just dropped in to say hello, popped by to catch up with a friend, make sure that all is well at Chez Singer?"

"Because, asshat, you're a demon," Bobby said, "And demons don't do anything, less'n they want something."

"There are times, Bobby darling, there are times," sighed Crowley, "When I find myself wondering if you really care at all..."

"Stop wonderin'," grunted Bobby.

"...But, as it happens, I do have a matter I would like to raise with Winchester the Elder, here. Well, another matter," he corrected. "Regarding your duties as Dominican, and pet human of Mr Alpha there," he indicated Jimi, who sniffed at his leg in curiosity.

"The Hellhounds doing their job?" queried Dean.

"Well, yes, mostly," agreed Crowley.

"So, job over," Dean told him. "Happy ending, roll credits, fade to black."

"I said mostly," the demon. "Sinful souls are being brought to Hell, yes, but I need you to give them some more training regarding the collection of deal-makers."

"They're not fetching deal-makers?" Sam echoed.

"Well, a few are dribbling in," confirmed Crowley, "But for the most part, deal-makers are going uncollected. They're a minor part of the Hellside cash flow, if you like, but it's causing ructions. The crossroads demons are getting rowdy about the filling of quotas – I can't give out the plaque for Most Souls Tempted For The Month until the souls arrive and are tabulated. And Asmodean is practically wetting himself with joy compiling tables and graphs illustrating the difference between deals made and incoming souls."

"Hmmmm," mused Bobby. "Maybe deal-makers on the whole aint exactly evil enough to register. After all, the pups were trained to evil souls, Damned through their own conduct. Maybe the ones that are comin' in are the ones that made deals to let them go sinning more effectively."

"Well, be that as it may, I need you to explain to them that collecting deal-makers is their job, too," Crowley reiterated. "Then, there is the small matter of AAAAAARGH!" He waved his hands around as a familiar small streak of smoke swirled playfully around him. Three neat parallel tears appeared in his lapel. "Oh, not again," he flapped ineffectually, "Get out of it, you!" The blob of smoke dropped to the carpet, and took form. "The problem child," he growled, as the small dog jumped onto his shoe and began to hump his shoe briskly, "Is still being a problem."

"It looks to me like madam there has chosen herself another Alpha," grinned Bobby, as the small Hellpoodle gazed adoringly up at Crowley. "So you might as well as get used to it."

"At least somebody in the universe doesn't hate you," Sam pointed out.

"Winchester! Do something about... _that_!" demanded Crowley.

"Awwwwww, look at her happy little face," crooned Dean, "How could I break her ickle heart by trying to take her away from you? Do you love Crowley? Is Crowley your Alpha? You love him so much, don't you? Yes you do! Yes you do!" The little dog yapped a couple of times, and ran around Crowley's feet. "Why don't you show him how much you love him?" suggested Dean, "And I'm sure he'll learn to love you too..."

"No she doesn't!" yelped Crowley. "No I won't! EEEEEEEEK!" The wisp of smoke streamed up to his shoulder, where the pup manifested and stuck her nose in his ear. "AAAAA aaaaaa OOOOOO er," went the King of Hell.

"I don't think the Hellhounds need any more training," Dean announced airily, "They're pulling in your damned souls, that's all you need. You want to collect deal-makers, you'll have to teach them yourself, or make other arrangements."

"What?" Crowley was outraged. "You can't do that! You're the bloody Dominican, mate!"

"Watch me," replied Dean smugly.

"You cheeky little bastard," scowled Crowley. "You try to double-cross me, I will rip your arse off your body and tear the screaming remains to pieces..."

"You need to stop thinking of this as some kind of deal, Crowley," Dean's smile was feral. "This is a hostage situation, you arrogant little thug. I own your dogs, do you understand me? Besides," he pouted playfully, "You never kissed me."

"I think I just threw up in my mouth a little," gasped Sam in a strangled voice.

"If I were you, Crowley," Bobby cut in, "I would be grateful for what I've got, and get lost."

"Before I change my mind," grinned Dean, "And decide to teach them to chase after demons instead. I saw this circus dog, once," he elaborated, "And it chased after the clowns, and tore their trousers off. I'll bet Ronnie could tell me how to teach them that..."

"Which would make you reeeeeal popular with the Hierarchy, I'm sure," prompted Bobby. "So, go on, git."

"Bobby, love," wheedled Crowley plaintively, "You're a wise head, you understand the importance of observing traditions – talk sense to the boy, explain to him how these things work..."

"Are you deaf as well as undesirable?" snapped Bobby. "Go on, you got what you want, mostly, now get the hell out of my house."

"I will find a god to pray to," Crowley muttered darkly, "I will find a god to pray to, and every night, I will pray to my new god that you do something to damn yourself, Dean Winchester, and I will be waiting for you Downstairs, with a blow-torch, a chainsaw, some fangirls and a can of whipped cream."

"If you are not gone by the time I count to three," Bobby hefted his trusty sawn-off, "You will become the very first data point for my experimental Mark V Anti-Demon rounds."

"Bobby," pleaded Crowley, "Look, the Hierarchy will not be happy about the deal-makers going, and I'll have to sit through the most appalling PowerPoint presentation..."

"Three!" yelled Bobby, pulling the trigger.

"Aaaaaaaargh! Aaaaaaaaargh!" went Crowley, rolling on the floor. "Aaaaaaargh! Owwwwwwwwww! Aaaaaaaargh!"

"Out of ten?" enquired Bobby.

"Fourteen!" wailed Crowley. "Owwwwwwwww! Bobby, how could you? How _could_ you?" The Hellpoodle scuttled in to kiss his nose lavishly. "Ohhhhhh, he shot me, pup, he shot me," moaned the King of Hell piteously. She redoubled her efforts.

"Wow," remarked Dean, "That's pretty potent stuff. What did you put in 'em, Bobby?"

"Salt recrystallised from holy water, and consecrated iron shot," grinned the old Hunter as he reloaded, "With just a small touch of sanctified dog crap."

_"What?"_ shrieked Crowley, his face a picture of horror.

"It's from New Skete," explained Sam, "A group of monastic communities in New York state. The monks breed and train German Shepherds to be working dogs. I contacted one that Bobby knows, and told him what Bobby wanted, and, well, they sent us some."

"You shot me with dog shit?" squeaked Crowley.

Sam looked thoughtful. "Fuck knows what we would've told the mailman if it'd been opened for postal inspection," he mused.

_"You shot me with dog shit!"_ screeched Crowley, a heartrending expression on his face.

"Bobby, how quick can you knock us up a batch of these?" asked Dean.

"Bobby, you shot me with dog shit," moaned Crowley, his lower lip wobbling, "And that sort of betrayal hurts more than anything in those rounds..."

"One," announced Bobby.

"When every other human on this planet has been stupid, selfish, or just plain weird, you were the one person I could trust to keep his head, and do what needed to be done..."

"Two," Bobby went on, cocking the gun.

"This is a blow I may not recover from," sniffled Crowley. The Hellpoodle whuffed consolingly at him.

"Two and a half." Bobby took aim, and smiled.

"I kept that photo on my phone, you know," wailed Crowley.

"Three!" Bobby fired.

Crowley was gone.

"He's got the biggest man-crush on you," Dean tittered.

Bobby slapped him upside the head.

**...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... **

The King of Hell sat disconsolately on his expensive sofa, the Hellpoodle swooshing around his head. From time to time, he felt a little wet tongue lick his ear.

"Everything all right, Mr Crowley?" asked Orgle.

"Oh, yes, yes," sighed Crowley, "As all right as it's going to get. Which is all I suppose any of us can hope for, in this afterlife."

"I brought some food for your dog," the fiend went on, putting down a small bowl of dark greasy stuff.

"She's not my dog!" snapped Crowley, "She's _supposed_ to be a bleeding _Hellhound_, not a bloody lapdog!"

"Vorz who took over rack maintenance, he says that he scrapes this stuff out from between the joists", Orgle went on happily, "And the imps just love it, so I thought, maybe..."

The little comet dropped into dog form, and gobbled up the contents of the bowl, tail wagging.

"She really is sweet," rumbled Orgle gently, all his mouths smiling, "What's her name?"

"She doesn't_ need_ a name!" Crowley wondered if someone in Hell was in fact making an infernal version of Candid Camera, because it would explain a lot. "She's supposed to be out dragging souls back here to the Pit, not stuffing her face with rack drippings!"

The Hellpoodle finished her dinner, then jumped up onto the sofa beside him, and whuffed encouragingly, putting a paw on his leg. Crowley looked down at her.

"Although, I have to admit, there's something decidedly appealing about the idea of you tearing the arse out of some snot-brained senior demon's strides," he muttered. "They're snobbish, ungrateful, arrogant, hoity-toity bastards, the lot of 'em..."

A scuffle of noise and raised voices in his outer office caught his attention. He heard Orgle tell someone that Mr Crowley was otherwise engaged and not available.

"Stand aside, fiend," came a voice dripping with disdain. Before Crowley could roll his eyes, or seat himself on his bidet, a very large, very fat, and very annoyed demon squeezed himself into the room.

"Ah, Duke Ganthery," Crowley forced himself to smile as he stood, "What can I do for you, Your Grace?"

"Don't butter me up, Crowley, you worthless little worm," snapped the demon, his chins wobbling angrily.

"If I don't, we may not get you back out the door," Crowley muttered to himself.

"I'm here to talk to you about Lust," the demonic noble went on.

"Well, obviously, I'm flattered, your Grace, but..."

"Don't be facetious!" snapped the duke. "I insist that you order her to meet with me!"

"Well, if you'll just fill in a meeting request, you can do it in Outlook, on the computer system," prompted Crowley.

"I'm not interested in your stupid gadgets and gizmos, Crowley," huffed the old demon, "I did try to fill in one of those idiotic forms, but it was sent back by... you know... herself... anyway, I shouldn't have to fill in damned paperwork!" Duke Ganthery recovered from the shudder that the mere thought of Verael could induce in many of the Hierarchy, "I am nobility! And I want Lust! Arrange it! If you can't arrange it, what are you for? Why do we bother to keep you around?"

"Because if it wasn't for me, you'd be the one being shot with dog shit!" snarked Crowley.

"This is not good enough," the Duke went on menacingly, "If we have no reason to keep you around, Crowley, we will not..."

_Grrrrrrrrr_

Both demons turned to look at the small bristling ball of fluff.

The Hellpoodle's eyes glowed red, and teeth like tiny knives bristled from her muzzle. She was staring fixedly at the archdemon.

"Good grief, what is that?" demanded the duke, in a tone most people reserve for saying things like "Don't look now, dear, but I think you might've stepped in some cat poo."

"That? Oh, that's... Gedda," Crowley replied. "Short for Get-out-of-it," he clarified. "She's a Hellhound," he added. "She's my Hellhound."

"My dear boy," laughed Ganthery, chins wobbling alarmingly, "What you have there is a pom-pom with what sounds like an unfortunate case of indigestion..."

Gedda the Hellpoodle might've been small for a Hellhound, but like Ronnie the werewolf, she made up for her lack of size by being faster, sneakier, and nastier.

What happened next happened very fast, too fast for Crowley to see what actually happened.

All he knew was that one moment, Duke Ganthery of the diabolical nobility was threatening him.

The next, the old demon was running down the corridor and shrieking like a frightened imp, moving amazingly fast for such a fat individual, clutching at his bleeding ear and his damaged privates, and with the backside torn out of his trousers.

Crowley reached down to pat the small fluffy face that grinned doggily up at him.

"Well, they do say that the females of the species are more deadly than the males," he noted.

* * *

><p>The monastic community at New Skete is real. Dunno whether they will actually provide you with sanctified dog poop as anti-demon measures, though.<p>

Reviews are the Adorably Protective Canine Friends Making Themselves At Home in the Bidet Of Life!


	25. Epilogue

**Epilogue**

Dean and Sam had no way of knowing whether the Hellhounds were doing their job, but reports of unquiet, unclaimed evil souls dropped away, so they inferred that they were.

Their next job took them after a witch. A real bitch of a witch, as Dean put it, responsible for at least a dozen deaths. When they finally caught up with her in her lair in a house that would have made the Addams family envious, she hurled Sam backwards through the bannister to the floor below even as Dean emptied half a clip into her. And even then, her spirit manifested to throw him through a first floor window.

When Dean landed, the excruciating pain made it clear that he'd hurt himself, and neither of his arms were responding to the helm. She advanced on him, intent on murder, and his last thoughts were of shame that he'd failed to protect Sam...

There was a growl and a rush of air, and he saw the ghost's face become a rictus of terror, just before she disappeared in a screaming puff of smoke. For a moment he thought he caught sight of a pair of red eyes grinning at him, but he was seeing stars from the fall, so he couldn't be sure. He was still smiling when Sam came limping out to find him, and insist on a trip to the nearest A&E to get his arms checked out.

**...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... **

"Oh quelle belle petite fille," exclaimed the well-dressed Parisian matron upon seeing the little poodle sitting by her master, "Monsieur, comment elle appellez-vous?"

"Elle s'appelle Gedda, Madame," replied Crowley, feeding the little dog a crumb of croissant. The lady cooed at Gedda, chatted briefly, then smiled, and moved on. "I'm telling you, I'd be happy to come back as a Parisian dog, mate," he told his companion. "They are the most spoiled animals on the planet."

"I can't help but notice how many women stop to talk to you," noted Charon with a grin, stirring his coffee, "Because of her."

"Well, Gedda is a beautiful creature, aren't you, my darling?" Crowley crooned. The little animal yipped happily, and jumped into his lap. "It's just a shame they can't see you in your true form," he sighed, tipping some tea into the saucer for her to lap, "Because that would really be fun to watch."

"I should have done this centuries ago," sighed Charon contentedly, biting into another pastry and watching an attractive woman stroll past.

"All work and no play makes Charon a dull ferryman," intoned Crowley. "And you do get a lovely frisson, I find, thinking about the chaos that will be occurring in your absence whenever you take a holiday."

"Could I borrow your delightful companion until the next woman walks past?" asked Charon, offering a piece of pastry to Gedda, who wagged her tail and took it.

"Get your own," Crowley told him, "And stop trying to steal her with your Greek charm."

"Spoilsport," Charon said good-naturedly. "I wonder if I should send a postcard home? Hades is quite keen on postcards."

"So, I'm getting bored with Paris," Crowley decided. "Where to next?"

"I'm thinking Italy," mused Charon, "The food there is very good."

"We could go to Venice," suggested Crowley, "City of gondolas. Let somebody ferry you around for a change."

Charon bit into another croissant. "I like it," he grinned.

**...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... **

"Go on," Lucifer proffered the box again, "They're really good."

"They're sticky," Michael wrinkled his nose.

"That's they syrup. It's supposed to be sticky! Look, I'm trying to be brotherly, here," the Morningstar told his brother, popping another morsel of baklava into his mouth. "Ohhhhh, Father, these are soooooo good..."

"Stop trying to tempt me into Gluttony," snapped Michael.

"I'm not trying to tempt you!" Lucifer shot back, "Look, I'm trying to share! That's generosity. The pursuit of Charity, which is a virtue, right?"

"It's not a virtue if you have ulterior motives," sniffed Michael.

"Oh, you stuck-up idiot," muttered Lucifer, eating more baklava. "Look, just a small amount won't hurt, will it? If you practise moderation, in the pursuit of Temperance, that's a virtue, too."

"You are the Evil One, the Father of Lies, and the Master of Temptation," Michael said, sounding a bit less certain. "And it is your purpose to trap the unwary. Your offers are snares for the soul."

"Fine. Have it your way," griped Lucifer, putting down the box. "I'll just eat it all. And I don't care if that's Gluttony, Persephone is a really good cook."

"I don't think she liked me," Michael confided, eyeing the sweet treats.

"Well, you were just a little bit, um, condescending," Lucifer said, "Just because their believers are polytheistic, there's no need to be snobbish about it."

"I think perhaps I could overcome a small temptation," Michael decided, taking a piece of the sticky dessert. His eyes widened. "Oh. Oh. That is very good."

"Told you," grinned Lucifer. "And, we have another parcel from Chitragupta. Look!" he brandished a flat box. "He sent more garlic and onion roti!"

"Don't you dare eat any of that!" Michael spluttered, "Don't you dare! Not until we figure out how to open a window or something! You know what happens when you eat Indian food!"

"Sorry, already did," grinned Lucifer, lifting one cheek and passing gas musically.

"Oh, you are disgusting," growled Michael, eating more baklava.

"There's probably cultures out there somewhere where it's considered polite after a meal, to show the host that you're completely contented," Lucifer pointed out.

"That's burping," Michael sniped. "And it wouldn't be polite if you gassed the host, his family, and half the surrounding neighbourhood." He waved a hand irritably. "For Father's sake, can't you point your rear under the door or something?"

"Sorry." Lucifer sounded anything but as he tuned up his trumpet trousers again. "But, I will make it up to you by reading you a spicy excerpt from my latest letter from Hel." He called forth a parchment. "I lie moaning in the dark, with my loins aflame, and the panting of Garmr reminds me of your manly grunting as you ploughed my womanfield, your rod athrust..."

"Oh, Father," moaned Michael, "I am beginning to wonder if it's possible for an angel to become an atheist..."

**...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... **

Anyone who saw the two elegantly dressed elderly ladies might have thought of the characters Miss Marple, or Hetty Wainthropp. They could have been very close friends, greeting each other warmly as they arrived simultaneously on the rambling porch of the old house. One of them knocked.

The man who answered the door had taken pains with his appearance: his hair was combed, his tie was straight, his shirt was ironed, and his house was as tidy as it had ever been. He greeted them politely, and showed them into the living room, where an ornate china set, a pot of strong tea, and a selection of dainty cakes and scones awaited them.

"Dear Bobby," one of the ladies greeted him, "I don't think you've formally met my sister?"

"We have corresponded," the other lady smiled, holding out a gloved hand to shake, "Although this is the first time we have actually met."

"And what a pleasure it is finally to meet you, Senior Librarian Danael," Bobby smiled.

"Oh, just Danael, Bobby," the old lady's bright blue eyes twinkled. "What a lovely spread you have for us! Now, do tell us," she began as Bobby poured tea, "How did you get on with the Hellhounds?"

**...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... **

"Sammy broke his cock! Sammy broke his cock!" chanted Dean, bouncing on his bed, "Sammy broke his co-o-o-o-o-o-ck!"

"Dean, I didn't break my cock," Sam told him patiently. Dean on painkillers was loopy at the best of times, and getting angry wouldn't help. "It's my coccyx, or tailbone, the very end of my spine, and it's only bruised."

"You're walking funny," giggled Dean. "Like a killer penguin."

"Well, it's kinda sore," Sam told him.

"You'll have to sit on a flamingo to drive the stapler," Dean grinned, "As long as Jimi doesn't eat your flamingo." He turned accusing eyes on the dog. "You ate my flamingo," he said reproachfully.

"It's okay, my flamingo is tucked away where he can't get it," Sam assured him, securing the plastic bag around the cast on Dean's left wrist. "Now, remember, you can't get your cast or your bandages wet, so keep your hands out of the water." He headed for the bathroom. "Come on, let's get this over with."

"Nope," smiled Dean happily, "I'm not eating any flowers. I'm not yellow, so I don't need a dishwasher."

"Dean, that old house was filthy," Sam tried to sound reasonable, "And we both got filthy, and you landed in a garden bed mulched with God-knows-what, and frankly, you stink, dude, so," he pointed to the bathroom, "It's tubby-wubby time."

Dean frowned. "I'm not going in there," he pouted. "There's warthogs."

"Warthogs?" echoed Sam doubtfully.

Dean nodded. "And photocopiers," he added ominously. "They'll vacuum your eyebrows. The lady with the giggly feet like a shark said so."

"Sharks don't have feet Dean," Sam explained, "They live in the water."

Dean looked suddenly panic-stricken. "Don't feed me to the shaaaarks in the baaaaath!" he wailed, wrapping his arms around Sam's neck.

"Aaaaargh! I won't! I won't!" squeaked Sam. "Nobody's going to feed you to sharks! There are none in there!"

"Go check," instructed Dean.

"Oh, God," sighed Sam. "Look, there are no sharks in the bathroom, okay? It's too shallow, and a bathtub is too small..."

"Bonsai sharks," huffed Dean.

"...Plus, sharks can't live in fresh water, so..."

"Bullsharks," Dean supplied promptly. "They can live in fresh water. They swim up the Mississippi as far as Illinois."

Sam stopped dead. "Er, yeah, okay, they can," he nodded, wondering how that little lucid factoid had fought its way through the industrial strength analgesics, "But..."

"And they drive around in carts with mice going 'Eeeek! Eeeek! Eeeek!'," Dean elaborated.

"Dean, there are absolutely no sharks in the bathroom..."

"Go check." Dean carefully crossed his arms, pouting like a duck-faced _Jersey Shore_ wannabe. "And chase them away."

Rolling his eyes, Sam made a show of stomping into the bathroom.

Dean listened with satisfaction as loud splashing and a couple of crashes drifted from the room.

"Get out! Get out!" he heard Sam yell angrily. "What the hell are you doing in my brother's bath? Get the fuck out, you finned freaks! Go on! OUT! You little bonsai bastards! RIGHT NOW!"

The sharks screamed for mercy briefly, then the toilet flushed.

"It's okay, bro," Sam assured him, "That's what we do to unwelcome bonsai bullsharks here."

"I love you Sammy," smiled Dean, as Sam finished wrapping his badly sprained right wrist in plastic.

"Yeah, I love you too, Mr Loopy," Sam couldn't help smiling back.

Dean grabbed him in an awkward hug. "You're the most viscous little teapot anybody could have," he declared.

"Oh God," Sam tried to disengage his brother without touching him, "Naked hugging so not cool, dude..."

"I wanna go outside and tell everybody what a viscous little teapot I have!" Dean announced.

"Fine, fine," Sam agreed, herding him towards the bathroom, "Just wait until after you've bathed, and you've got some clothes on, okay?"

"Sing the song for me, Sammy?" asked Dean plaintively once Sam had him seated in the bath.

"Dean, just hold still," Sam instructed, reaching for the shower gel, "And let's get this over with as soon as possible."

"Sing the sooooong!" howled Dean, looking like he was about to burst into tears. "Sing the soooooong!"

"The things I do," muttered Sam. Jimi honked encouragingly on his squeaky pig.

It was their usual standard of motel accommodation, cheap, with thin walls, which is why the housemaid heard the singing as she walked past on her way to the office. It struck her as strange, because she didn't remember the guys in that room having a kid with them, but it definitely sounded like a bathtime song, complete with sqeaky toy.

_Oinker Stoinker, you're the one, *whunk whonk*_  
><em>You make bathtime lots of fun, *whonk honk*<em>  
><em>Oinker Stoinker, I'm awfully fond of you...<em>

**THE END**

* * *

><p>Ta-dah! Another plot bunny bites the dust, so until the next one nibbles my keyboard, or the DDD&amp;SSS van pulls up, it's ta-ta for now.<p>

Reviews are the Bonsai Shark/Viscous Little Teapot/Drug-Affected Winchester Of Your Choice in the Bath Of Life!


	26. Special Bonus Feature  Deleted Scene!

...Because the Denizens want it. And I'm wondering if I can get a story over the 300 reviews mark. And some people have been very clear that no Jimiverse story of more than a couple of chapters is complete without a visit from a certain unmarked white van, and so...

* * *

><p><strong>SPECIAL BONUS FEATURE: DELETED SCENE FROM END OF CHAPTER 25<strong>

_white van pulls up outside Singer Salvage_

*knock knock knock*

**Bobby:** ? ? ? ? ?

*The DDD&SSS Crew stand on the porch. They sing their jingle.*

_Have your Winchesters been Hunting, are they damaged, are they bruised,_  
><em>Have bits of them been broken, have their tailbones been abused?<em>  
><em>Call DDD&amp;SSS if idjits make you blue,<em>  
><em>We've custard, cream and sprinkles, and we'll sort them out for you.<em>

**Bobby:** I wouldn't say no to some help; Sam's walking like a penguin and having library nightmares, and Dean keeps trying to exorcise the refrigerator because he thinks that demons have stolen all the booze.

**Knivespast:** Leave it with us, Mr Singer, we are professionals.

**Bartlebead:** And we have a certain amount of interest in dealing with drug-affected victims, I mean customers.

**Kepouros:** (consulting clipboard): We can do the Droopy & Loopy package for you.

**Danni1200:** Which includes therapeutic custard poulticing, sequin removal, and double inspection for any bruises that may have been missed first time around – that comes with our 'Get It Right' guarantee.

**AnjEmm:** Which means we will keep inspecting until we find something needing attention, or they start to cry.

**PhoenixFelicis:** We suggest you ignore any screaming, yelling, or demands to be untied.

**Jelly(Bean) (nodding compassionately):** Those affected by mind-altering medications can sometimes be... confused about what their therapists are doing to help them.

*They all nod seriously*

**ccase13:** But never fear, we can have them coated in custard, I mean feeling better, within, oh, I'd say, give us two hours.

**Bobby:** Wonderful. Have at 'em, ladies.

*the DDD&SSS hustle in*

_Upstairs_

**Dean (tearfully):** The Booze Demons! The Booze Demons! They took away the beeeeer! Waaaaah!

**Bartlebead (pats Dean's hand gently):** What naughty demons they are.

**Dean (pouting):** And they painted the geraniums, you know. With Gatorade. Now they're all, you know, internationally awkward. With pointy teeth. And furballs.

**Ciya:** Why don't you just lie back, and tell us about the geraniums?

**Dean (looking anxious):** You know about the geraniums?

**Georgia:** Of course – we make it our business. We're here to help you.

**Dean (tearing up again):** They're all Spanish now! They'll never have puppies! And they keep chasing me! *clutching at the DDD&SSS* They want to steal my socks! They gyrate in my pants! And they bite me on the fender when the knitting goes boink!

**SeaGlassGreen (tut-tutting understandingly):** Lucky for you, custard repels geraniums.

**Dean (slightly cross-eyed):** It does? *He brightens up suddenly* Oh, a kitty!

**PaulatheCat:** Meow, did you know that cats will chase and kill geraniums if they annoy their people?

**Dean:** Awesome! *grabs PaulatheCat, and shoves her down his pants. He wiggles a bit* Ooo-OOO-er, I think something's gyrating down there.

**SeaGlassGreen:** To the custard tub, ladies!

_Downstairs_

**Sam:** Explain to me again exactly how this is supposed to help?

**Katiki:** The massage will help to bring out the bruising.

**Leahelisabeth:** And getting into this box will help to overcome the nightmares about the library.

**Sam:** It was pretty traumatic – all those books, and no rhyme or reason to the filing system. Er, it's kind of dark in here.

**Katiki:** You have to free associate. Being massaged in the box represents being unable to take action to bring order to the books.

**Sam:** Why is she in here with me?

**Leahelisabeth:** My presence is essential for your Librarian Desensitisation Therapy. Let's have it, Katiki!

*Katiki upends bucket of chocolate sauce into the box*

**Sam:** AAAAAARGH! What's that for?

**Leahelisabeth:** The chocolate sauce represents your feelings of being mired in the chaos of an unorganised library.

**Katiki:** Being massaged with the chocolate sauce represents you letting go of your stress about being in an unorganised library.

**Leahelisabeth**: And getting rid of the chocolate sauce represents getting rid of your anxiety.

**Sam:** Er, how does that happen?

*Enthusiastic slurping and the occasional squeal emanate from the box*

_Even Further Downstairs_

**Crowley:** It feels like the whole world is against me.

**Steelhorse67:** Heavy lies the head that wears the infernal tiara. *pats Crowley's knee understandingly*

**Crowley:** Bobby hates me.

**Aeicha:** He just doesn't appreciate your... unique talents.

**Crowley (bottom lip trembling):** He shot me with dog poo.

**Knivespast:** I think it's time for a group hug.

**Crowley (suddenly looking worried):** Is this likely to damage my tie?

**Aeicha:** Would you like it to?

_In The Living Room_

**Bobby:** Watching you eat scones is an education, madam.

**Lampito:** You think that was impressive, wait until I start on the profiteroles.

**Bobby:** Your mind can have a decidedly risqué cast to it.

**Lampito:** Don't play coy with me, Mr Singer, I saw Verael do the thing with the éclair.

**Bobby:** That was nothing; when Danael did that thing with the cucumber sandwiches, I nearly fell off my chair.

**Lampito:** Indeed.

**Bobby:** Shall we watch some HELL-TV? I've been finding some of the channels quite amusing. There's the one where Sam gets arrested at the opening of his Broadway show, perhaps? His acceptance speeches at the Tony Awards are hilarious. No, I think you'd enjoy the footage of Dean auditioning for the Bolshoi, that boy can fouetté en tournant like nobody's business...

**Lampito (slightly primly):** That does not surprise me in the least.

_**FIN**_

Aaaaaaand if you're in the mood for some custard, green-screening and fangirl shenanigans, don't forget to pop over to Kepouros's story, 'The Fangirl Chronicles', where she will make them do dreadful things for your perverted fangirl amusement. Just drop her a review, and she will aim to please. Well, she'll aim to make the Winchesters please, anyway. Please also join my Kill Shirley campaign, which have just this moment decided to start. Not only is she molesting Bobby, she's attempting to stop the fangirls from amusing themselves! She - must - die!


End file.
